


Dark Dreams

by Lilys_Eyes



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Ghost Sex, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Nightmares, Non-Graphic Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-03-29 14:40:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19021984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilys_Eyes/pseuds/Lilys_Eyes
Summary: Famous painter Viggo Mortensen buys an old cottage in the countryside. Charming and cozy, it does not seem at all like a place to harbour a dark secret. But appearances can be deceiving.





	1. A man who came to my Garden

**Author's Note:**

> First chapters originally posted at the Library of Moria archive. Lyrics at the beginning of each chapter from "The Secret Garden" by Marsha Norman and Lucy Simon.

_A man who came to my valley,_

_A man I hardly knew,_

_A man who came to my Garden_

_Grew to love me._

 

He`d bought the cottage purely on a whim and although he was somewhat prone to do things on impulse, those things didn`t usually include buying houses he`d only seen on photos. Well, until now, that was. When he`d first glimpsed the cottage on the small photo in the realtors window, it had immediately caught his eye. There had been something about it that had seemed to speak directly to him. Something vaguely mysterious, yet welcoming. He`d never before experienced such a strange feeling of urgency. It had felt almost as if the house itself were urging him to buy it.

 

So he`d gone in and done just that. After all he was Viggo Mortensen, one of the most celebrated contemporary artists alive. His paintings sold for small fortunes and so money was, as arrogant and clichèd as it sounded, even to his own ears, no object with him. The realtor had been considerably astonished that he hadn´t even wanted to look the property over. But Viggo had assured the man that the information he had given him concerning the condition of the house and what he`d gleaned from the pictures, was quite sufficient enough.

 

And now he was the proud owner of Old Mill Cottage. A rustic little gem straight out of a Jane Austen or Charlotte Bronté novel, at least that was how the realtor had described it. Just the right place to get away from the bustle and noise of London for a bit. So a week later, a cheerfully curious Viggo left his luxurious apartment for his new holiday home.

 

The drive was quite a pleasant one, the weather sunny, but not too hot, ideal for travelling. He reached the village, on the outskirts of which the cottage was situated, in the early afternoon. Viggo found himself smiling at the sight of the narrow streets and alleyways, lined by little thatched houses, their window boxes nearly overflowing with flowers in every shade of red, yellow and blue.

 

There was even a quaint village pub, he noted, the _Rose and Crown_. All in all, the place recalled the cosy little villages dreamed up by Charles Dickens at his most cheerful. Viggo could almost see the rosy-cheeked girls in white aprons and boys in heavy, polished boots skipping home from the small old church on Sundays. Right after the church, he would have to take the left-hand turn, he remembered just in time. There the asphalt would give way to a dirt road called Old Mill Lane that would lead him right up to the front door of his cottage.

 

“You can`t miss it, it`s the only house on that road,” he`d been told.

 

And then he saw it, gleaming white in the sun, and for a moment he held his breath. It looked like something out of a fairy tale. Like a sugar-iced gingerbread house. One gable end was almost entirely covered with laburnum, giving it an air of enchantment and there was a burbling brook running through the garden behind the house. Viggo couldn`t take his eyes off of it. After he`d parked his car, he just stood at the garden gate for a moment, taking everything in. He was certain, to buy the house had been the right decision.

 

The garden could have been taken straight from a Monet painting. But probably even Monet would have struggled to faithfully capture its wild, abundant beauty, Viggo mused. There were purple, yellow and pink lupins, like oversized birthday candles and flowerbeds holding nothing but roses of every colour. There were fragrant jasmine bushes and two apple trees, one almost completely covered by creamy pink climbing roses, clusters of bluebells and foxglove and the entire lawn was strewn with white and pink daisies. Viggo felt not a little like a man who`d just wandered straight into paradise.

 

And he hadn`t even been inside the house yet. Even the small skeleton key, he took from his pocket had something magical to it. A sparkling silver spell in his hand, ready to unlock the door to hidden treasures. It turned smoothly with only a little, bell- like tinkle. _Open Sesame_ , Viggo thought, smiling to himself.

 

The door swung open without the slightest creak to reveal a small, sunny hallway. At the other side of the hallway would be the kitchen and pantry and behind the door to his right was, if he remembered correctly, the livingroom. The bedroom, the bathroom and a small spare room were upstairs.

 

It was exactly like he`d imagined it. Like an illustration from a children`s book come to life.

Time seemed to have no meaning here. Even expected modern- day comforts like electricity and central heating had been discretely integrated without disrupting the cottage´s nostalgic charm.

 

Viggo happily took his time exploring every room and found he couldn`t keep himself from grinning like a small boy. The kitchen still boasted a wonderfully robust iron range, complete with gleaming copper pots and pans hanging on the wall above it. In the livingroom, an open fireplace seemed to have gathered various overstuffed armchairs around it, like a benevolent old matron surrounded by adoring grandchildren, while above delicate glass lamps, like glowing Spring Snowflakes, mirrored the garden´s blossoming bounty.

 

The bedroom, much to Viggo´s delight, lacked the chunky, dark furniture and stiff, heavy curtains that had once been considered the height of comfort and elegance. Instead the honey-coloured pine of the bed and wardrobe and the lacy white batiste of curtains and pillows gave it the air of a sun- drenched swan´s nest.

 

The entire cottage had none of the musty, oppressive atmosphere, so often associated with old houses. And Old Mill Cottage was quite an old house indeed, having been built sometime in the late 17th century, if Viggo remembered correctly.

 

Happening to glance through the small kitchen window, he was surprised to find dusk already beginning to settle over the garden. Had he really spent the entire afternoon and evening just wandering around the small house? But he´d only opened every drawer and cupboard, studied the miniature paintings adorning walls of the hallway, made a point of sitting in every chair, watched swarms of butterflies paint moving specks of colour on the white blossoms of the apple trees...

 

Viggo stifled a yawn, feeling rather tired all of a sudden, although according to his watch, it was only a few minutes past nine. It was quite unusual for him to go to bed before midnight, but he found himself not at all averse to the idea of an early night for a change. Also he was quite looking forward to finding out if the bed really was as soft as it looked.

 

Admonishing himself not to forego brushing his teeth, no matter how tempting the idea might seem, Viggo was soon happily snuggled into his lovely new bed. _Yes, every bit as soft as it looks,_ he thought contently before drifting off to sleep.

 

 ---------------------------

 

He was walking across the snow-covered courtyard of a castle, past what had to be the stables, the distinctive smell of horses and leather wafting towards him.

 

Noticing some movement out of the corner of his eye, he turned to catch a glimpse of a man moving about in the only dimly lit building. A slender, dark haired man, hefting a large old fashioned saddle. Although he could not see the man´s face, Viggo got the impression that he was still quite young. Despite the cold, the man wore nothing but a coarse shirt, worn breeches and a threadbare dark waistcoat, not even shoes.

 

“You there,” he heard himself say in a strangely unfamiliar sounding voice, ”what happened to your shoes?” The man turned around, but before Viggo could see his face the image faded away. Now he was standing on the banks of a brook. The sun was shining and the grass beneath his feet was now white with cherry blossom petals. _May, yes of course, it was May_ , Viggo thought, wondering how he knew. Also even though he didn`t recognize the spot, he was certain he´d been there before.

 

A sudden peal of laughter shook him from his puzzlement. A joyous, unrestrained sound somewhere behind him. Upon turning, he spotted a man sitting there in the grass, busily writing into a book with an old fashioned quill. Surprised, he recognized him as the man he`d previously seen in the stables, although now a lot less shabbily dressed. The other man seemed to take no notice of him and for some reason, Viggo suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to touch him, to make him look up from his writing, so he could finally see his face. Yes, he _had_ to see his face.

 

 Without thinking, he reached out his hand and lightly touched the other man`s shoulder. Startled, the man looked up and Viggo found himself gazing into the most beautiful and at the same time, the most frightening face he`d ever seen. Big, brown eyes in an ashen face stared sightlessly at him, the lips were blue, like that of a drowned person and the slender neck was marred by an ugly, almost black bruise. He was looking into the face of a corpse.

 

\----------------------------------

 

Viggo awoke with an almost painful start and for a moment, felt quite disoriented .He couldn`t remember ever having had such a frighteningly realistic nightmare before, not even as a child. And even though his nightmares were fairly few, they usually involved him losing his ability to paint, either by going blind or injuring his hands.

 

He ran a hand over his eyes, shuddering at the memory of the man`s face. Certainly not a sight he would forget in a hurry. _God, is the countryside already disagreeing with me?_ _I´m probably not used to so much wholesomeness anymore,_ he thought somewhat wryly. Although when he thought about it, what had made that face so horrifying had not even necessarily been its cadaverous pallor nor those cruel marks of violence upon it, but its heartbreaking expression of suffering and utter misery. Viggo didn`t want to think about what terrible things must have happened to that poor man.

 

_Absolutely nothing happened to him. Nothing could have happened to him because he doesn`t exist. It was only a dream,_ he reminded himself. _That strange man is only an image created by your own brain._

 

Determined not to lie awake for the rest of the night just because of a nightmare, he took a couple of deep breaths and tried to remember every flower and plant in the garden. He was pleased to soon feel his nervousness begin to seep away and a little later, was fast asleep again.

 

The next morning, sipping coffee in his little kitchen, detachedly recalling his nightmare, Viggo wondered how it could have scared him so. He probably was just getting old. He could see himself, twenty years from now, little grandpa Viggo, cowering in fear behind his enormous armchair at the sight of his own shadow. He smiled wryly to himself. Hopefully he wouldn`t turn into _quite_ such an old scaredy cat.

 

Rising to wash his coffee cup, his gaze fell on the little window above the sink. There appeared to be some kind of smudge or scratch on it that he hadn´t noticed before. Yes, somebody had indeed scratched words into the windowpane. The writing was very small, and Viggo had to squint to make out every letter. He read:

 

                                                             Orlando

                                                              Listen?

 


	2. I heard someone crying

_I heard someone crying,_

_Who tho` could it be?_

_Someone in this house whom no one seems to see._

_Someone no one seems to hear_

_Except for me._

_I heard someone crying,_

_Maybe it was he._

 

 

 

 

What was that supposed to mean? Viggo shook his head, he hated it when people thought they had to leave their names and silly messages everywhere. But there was one thing about those words that puzzled him a bit. They seemed to be neither on the in- nor on the outside of the glass, but _inside_ it. He ran his fingertips across them. No, you definitely could not feel them. Well, he could always have a new pane put in if he wanted. Viggo shrugged, at the moment he didn`t really care, he was itching to go into the garden and paint.

 

After he`d brought his painting utensils into the garden, he idly looked around for an inspiration. To him painting usually didn`t mean painting what he wanted, but finding something that wanted him to paint it. Maybe, if he was unlucky, he might not find anything at all, it suddenly occurred to him. After all, his inspirations so far had never yet included any kind of rural idyll. Yet again and again he found his gaze straying to the overgrown apple tree. There was something vaguely mysterious about it. It looked almost as if someone had deliberately thrown a pale pink veil over it to hide something, something that seemed to want to be discovered. Maybe he would be allowed to find out just what that was. He took up a fine brush and began.

 

No matter how long he´d been an artist, it would never cease to surprise him, just how unpredictable the thoughts and emotions were that his art would unlock inside him. Something that had started out joyous and exuberant, could suddenly become sombre and melancholy and vice versa. And he was just as likely to find himself smiling as wiping away tears. So he was unfazed at first, by the strange feeling beginning to creep over him, merely noting it was there. A weird sense of foreboding, as if the atmosphere of the garden was slowly beginning to take on a somewhat sinister air.

 

 

Viggo blinked a few times, not sure if he was imagining it. His fingers holding the paintbrush were starting to feel oddly numb, as if somehow the weight of the air itself was gradually squeezing the blood out of them. Shaking his hand did nothing to drive the numbness away, on the contrary, it seemed to travel up his arm and throughout his entire body.

 

He swallowed dryly, what on earth was happening to him? He attempted to step away from the easel, to force his fingers to release the paintbrush, but in vain. Now well and truly alarmed, he had to fight down the panic rising in his throat, as his body now seemed to work like an automaton.

 

He was aware that the sun was still shining, yet its warmth could not reach him anymore. He was aware the birds were still singing, yet his ears had become deaf to their song. And while he _knew_ he was still standing there before his easel, it was only logic that told him so. His body itself felt as immaterial as a cloud.

 

And yet somehow, his paintbrush was still rushing furiously about the canvas, utterly beyond his control. He was not even allowed to observe its manic wanderings, his eyes remaining steadfastly fixed on the apple tree, no matter how hard he tried to tear his gaze away.

 

Terrified, Viggo fervently wished someone would find him, would help him. Right until the moment he realized that _someone_ indeed had found him. Someone he immediately knew was not there to help him.

 

He could not have said just how many of them there were, but they were many, of that he was certain. A crowd of people, surrounding him on all sides. Angry people. Even though they remained invisible to his eyes, he could feel their anger and hate roll over him like waves of utter blackness. There were dogs too, a barking and howling pack of hounds, straining on their leashes, invisible teeth snapping at his legs. These people had been hunting for somebody and he knew that they`d found whoever that was now.

 

He felt cornered and threatened, although at the same time he was certain that it wasn`t him they`d been hunting for. It was almost as if he were experiencing somebody else`s emotions. He could feel them closing in on him now, their anger turning into a feeling of grim triumph. Now mortally afraid, Viggo somehow managed to force his body to stumble a few steps backward, only to be stopped dead in his tracks by an incredible pain shooting through his neck. He started gasping for air, it felt as if something was slowly crushing his windpipe.

 

 

Viggo desperately tried to raise his hand, to claw at the collar of his shirt, anything to alleviate that unbearable pressure, but in vain. It just seemed to increase evermore and black spots already began to dance before his eyes. An odd mushy, wet sensation started to spread behind his Adam´s apple, flesh starting bleed as it was slowly but surely crushed to a pulp. There was no way he was going to survive this, Viggo realized.

 

He could already feel his body beginning to go limp in surrender, when the pain stopped as abruptly as it had begun, finally letting him drop to the ground in a crumpled heap.

 

Panting and nearly unconscious, he rolled onto his side, his entire body shaking with his desperate, gulping breaths. What the _hell_ had that been? Had he just had some kind of seizure or was he going mad? He coughed and rubbed his neck, it burned as if he´d swallowed lava. Still trembling, Viggo tried to force himself to breathe slowly and deeply for several long minutes. Only when he was finally fairly certain his legs would obey him once more, did he dare to attempt to stand up again.

 

 _What on earth was that? Is this what an epileptic seizure feels like?_ , he thought dazedly. His hands on his hips, he took a few more deep breaths. That´s when he saw it. He involuntarily raised his arms, as if to shield himself from the sight. _My god, I am going mad!_

 

Like a huge raven, black and ominous, the painting seemed to sit on the easel, almost daring him to look at it. And while it did indeed depict the garden, it was not at all the blossoming, sun- drenched idyll that surrounded him

 

The painted garden was shrouded in darkness, only lit by a pale moon. The ground was covered in a thick blanket of snow, the bare apple tree starkly silhouetted against it, its twisting branches seemingly trying to fight off the flurry of snowflakes assailing it. A scene that by itself would have been indescribably melancholy.

 

It was what hung from one of the tree´s lowest branches, that turned melancholy to naked horror. The limp figure of a man, a thick rope around his lacerated neck. The man`s clothes were torn and blood-spattered, every visible inch of skin covered in black bruises. Viggo didn’t even have to look at his face to know it was the man from his dream. He turned and fled into the house.

 

Shaking, he slumped into one of the livingroom´s welcoming armchairs. What was wrong with him? Because something definitely _was_ wrong. Viggo ran his hands over his eyes again and again, as if to reassure himself that everything he saw was indeed real. _Pull yourself together!_ he mentally ordered himself. Releasing a long, slow breath, he rested his forearms on his knees.

 

 _Alright, what do you do now? Admit that you haven´t the foggiest idea what just happened to you and then... then what? Phone a shrink and tell him that something just took over your body and made you paint some gruesome picture? You`d probably spend the rest of your life on a couch then, or worse_. He seemed to vaguely recall reading that hallucinations could be one of the symptoms of a brain tumour. _Yes, but only in advanced stages_ , and hell, he didn`t even have headaches.

 

Maybe he`d just experienced some weird kind of “waking dream,” triggered by the garden`s somewhat mysterious atmosphere. Viggo felt himself relaxing a bit at the thought, eagerly latching on to it. That could very well have been it, after all, he`d always had a very vivid imagination. _Yes, that must have been it and that`s why I painted that guy from my dream. It was just another dream_ , he told himself, choosing to ignore everything that might indicate otherwise.

 

 _A kind of sleep paralysis probably, Old Hag syndrome, or whatever it´s called._ That too would explain the pressure on his throat _._ A frightening experience to be sure, but certainly neither dangerous nor in any way inexplicable. Maybe he was a lot closer to becoming little old grandpa Viggo than he thought. Dozing off on his feet and in broad daylight no less. He shook his head, now feeling rather foolish, frightened nearly out of his wits by a mere dream! _But at least I finished the painting,_ he thought just a little defiantly. Although he wasn’t really sure what he wanted to do with it.

 

 Keep it? It wasn´t really something you would want to look at on a daily basis. Destroy it? It wouldn`t be the first. Although it rarely happened anymore now, Viggo _had_ burnt a few of his paintings before. Though usually only when he had stubbornly tried to paint something that he knew didn´t really want to be painted and, as a result, had ended up with an artificial, bland mess. Maybe he should take another look at it and then decide.

 

It seemed to be waiting for him there on the easel and he found that he actually had to force himself to look closely at the frightening scene. Strange, the paint had already dried completely. He couldn`t remember ever having seen anything like it before. It almost looked like a photograph, everything seemed so real, but unlike a photograph, it appeared somehow three-dimensional.

 

He felt he could reach into it and touch the tree´s rough bark. None of his other paintings radiated such an overwhelming energy. He ran his fingertips over the dead man`s pale face, a subconscious, comforting gesture, half expecting it to feel cold to the touch. It really _wa_ s the most beautiful face he`d ever seen, even the horrible bruises and the man`s heartbreaking expression couldn`t change that. It was terrifying, that was true, but it was also a masterpiece, Viggo realized.

 

There was no way he could destroy it. Carefully lifting it from the easel, he pondered briefly what to do with it. There wasn´t really a room in the cottage where it wouldn´t look completely out of place. Well, he would decide later. His gaze fell on it once more. _I didn`t even forget to sign it_ , he thought wryly, _even my dreams have to be genuine Mortensen`s._ _So much for humility_. But upon closer inspection, what he had taken to be his signature, turned out to be the words ”Find Me,” written in a tiny scribble. Feeling slightly nervous again, he decided he`d had enough mysteries for one day and quickly brought the painting into the spare upstairs room. It was a good thing that he would have to drive into town to buy some food, that way he would spend the rest of the day doing only completely banal, down-to earth stuff.

 

 

 

 


	3. Lead me to the Garden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ indicates Orlando`s "voice"

 

 

 

 

_Lift me up and lead me to the garden,_

_Where life begins anew._

_Where I`ll find you,_

_And I`ll find you love me too._

 

~~~~~~~~

I can`t believe it! He`s come back. I´ve seen him here in the house today. I was in the garden, weeding and suddenly something caused me to look up and glance through the kitchen window. And there he was, standing right there in the kitchen. I think I have never felt so much joy and relief in my entire life.

The grudge I`d secretly borne him for leaving me for so long, completely dissolved the moment I saw his dear face again. Oh, how I wanted to rush to him, ask him where he`d been, why he hadn`t told me he was going away, but I had lost my key again and couldn`t open the door. I knocked as loudly as I could, but apparently he`d gone upstairs and couldn`t hear me. I contemplated calling him, but then decided against it. I will surprise him tonight. If I can find my key, that is.

~~~~~~~~~

 

 

 

It hadn`t taken Viggo very long to complete his shopping and so he didn`t mind to satisfy the curiosity of the lady behind the counter of the small grocery, who was delighted to find that she was the first to meet the new owner of Old Mill Cottage.

 

“You must be a very good painter, if you can earn your living with it”, she said innocently when he told her he was a painter.

 

“Well, some people seem to think so, although there are times when I`m not so sure,” he smiled.

 

That was true actually, he would never have thought of himself as _Viggo Mortensen, painting genius_.

 

“So, how do you like the cottage then? I`ve always thought it a most beautiful little place. There`s something almost…enchanted about it ”, the lady said with a dreamy expression.

 

“Yes, I had the same feeling myself,” Viggo nodded. ”To be honest, no other house ever took my breath away like that. Love at first sight, you might say,” he added with a chuckle.

 

“But it`s creepy there”, a squeaky voice suddenly chimed in, seemingly out of nowhere.

 

Viggo was a bit perplexed, being unable to determine the owner of that voice, until he looked down and saw a very small boy, currently trying to tear the wrapper off a lollipop, standing right in front of him. With his compact stature and unruly red hair, he reminded Viggo a bit of a Hobbit.

 

“It`s creepy? You think so ?” Viggo asked smiling.

 

“Mm mm”, the boy nodded gravely, still fighting with the lollipop.

 

Suddenly he managed to tear most of the wrapper off and stuck the sweet in his mouth with a victorious grin, happily ignoring the bits of plastic still clinging to it. Apparently he now felt sufficiently fortified for a serious conversation.

 

“We`d go there to play sometimes and then _some_ of those times we`d see this guy in the garden. And every time we`d say “Hi,” but that guy wouldn`t talk to us. He`d just walk around and weed or water the flowers. And sometimes he`d just stand there looking like he`s got a toothache or something. And no matter _what_ you do, that guy just won`t talk to you. Teddy says it`s cause he´s stupid, but we told Mr. McCarthy and he said it`s a ghost.”

 

Viggo stood there for a moment just processing the information, a vague uneasy feeling wanting to rise in his chest, but he quickly suppressed it.

 

“Well, since I`m the new owner of the cottage, I promise, should I ever meet this mysterious fellow, I will tell him to stop being so rude to you and your friends.”

 

The boy still looked a bit sceptic.

 

“But if it _is_ a ghost…,”

 

“Sam? Sam? Oh, there you are!” He was interrupted by a rotund woman carrying a shopping basket.

 

“I can`t believe I lost you in such a small shop, I really must keep you on a leash.”

 

“Sam was just telling me about my new haunted house”, Viggo explained.

 

“Oh, he`s been nothing but ghosts, ghosts, ghosts for the past few weeks”, the woman smiled apologetically.” But at least he`s past his Teletubby phase, now those _really_ frighten me.”

 

She took one of Sam`s sticky hands and after smiling ”Bye” to Viggo, more or less dragged her little Hobbit out of the shop after her. Viggo gave the woman behind the counter a surprised look.

 

“There is probably not a single house in the village that doesn`t have its own ghost story”, she shrugged. ”Most people are quite proud of theirs. There`s even a ghostly woman in black supposed to haunt the basement of this shop, but in all the years I`ve been working here, she has refused to appear. Maybe she doesn`t like me, or maybe she`s simply found a more interesting place to haunt.”

 

“Well, I suppose it _mus_ t get quite tedious to haunt the same place for centuries, with nothing to do but maybe utter a few ghastly screams and the occasional rattling of chains”, Viggo replied with a grin.

 

They`d chatted for a few more minutes and afterwards Viggo had carried his shopping to his car, intending to head straight back to the cottage. But then he paused, car key already in hand. The words of the little boy kept popping into his head, for some reason reminding him of his unpleasant experience in the garden. Suddenly he didn`t feel quite so eager to get back to his lovely new house anymore. Viggo decided he felt like having a cup of coffee in the small cafè he`d passed earlier on before he drove back.

 

 

~~~~~~~~

 

I still haven`t found my key! But I was lucky, it seems the door wasn`t locked after all. Of course I immediately rushed inside, but he was gone. He must have left while I was searching for my key. At first I was so disappointed, I almost cried, but now I`m glad that I have time to arrange everything for our first night together after being parted for so long. It is strange how I could wait so patiently for his return and now that he´s come back, every second seems like an hour to me. I hope so very much that now we can be together again and everything will be just like it was before.

~~~~~~~~

It was already late in the afternoon when Viggo returned to the cottage. After having his cup of coffee, he`d still explored the village for a bit and had been delighted to find that his first impression had been accurate, it really _was_ one of the most charming places he`d ever seen and it had taken his mind completely off every thought of ghosts.

 

He deposited his shopping on the kitchen table, wondering if he should have an early dinner and then wait for the sunset. He contemplated making a few sketches of the sun setting over the cottage, but decided against it, there`d still be plenty of opportunities for that. He took a quick, refreshing shower and read a little before making dinner which, to his surprise, actually turned out quite well although he hadn`t cooked in ages.

 

After he`d finished his dinner, he went to sit in the garden for a while, just taking in nature´s  subtle changes at dusk. The chirping of the crickets, the small rustling noises of mice and hedgehogs, scurrying through the bushes. The grass that still smelled of sunlight and the faint breeze that already bore the earthier scents of night. The trees that suddenly seemed to carry stars like small, glowing fruit.

 

 The sunlight drenched daytime garden of Monet gradually gave way to the mysterious fairy tale forests of Arthur Rackham`s* illustrations. Full of bizarre yet beautiful shapes and shadows that seemed to have a life of their own. It seemed as if he`d only have to wait long enough and he`d glimpse a procession of tiny, lantern-bearing pixies, dancing in glittering circles on the grass. It had been completely dark for some time, before Viggo finally could bring himself to go back inside again. In his apartment he`d probably turn on the TV now and paint and write with the monotonous voices on CNN droning in the background. Although there was an elderly TV in a corner of the living room, Viggo didn`t even bother to check if it was still connected. He would go to bed and read a bit more. He´d started the book ages ago, but had somehow never found the time to finish it.

 

When he opened the bedroom door, he was met with an equally unexpected and enchanting sight. His bed was completely strewn with wild rose and apple blossom petals. Apparently the wind had carried them through the open window, so that now his bed seemed to be covered in a sprinkling of fragrant snow. After just delightedly taking in the lovely scene for a few moments, Viggo carefully turned back the covers and climbed into bed. Taking a couple of deep breaths, enjoying the sweet scent of the petals, he opened his book. But after only a few pages, Viggo already felt a pleasant drowsiness slowly enticing his eyelids to close. For a moment he half- heartedly attempted to fight it, but surrender seemed simply too sweet and he happily allowed himself to drift into sleep. The bed was just too comfortable to stay awake in for long.

 

\-----------

He stood in the doorway to a lavishly furnished, old-fashioned room. A huge four-poster bed occupied almost an entire wall, while the other three were covered in heavy tapestries. This was _his_ room, Viggo realized. Or more specifically, his bedroom. A man was bustling about, lighting candles and kindling a fire in the room´s enormous fireplace. Sighing softly, he crouched down before the roaring fire, stretching his hands towards its heat with a little sound of contentment.”Orlando,” Viggo heard himself say. The other man jumped and quickly scrambled to his feet.

 

“I`m sorry, Sir, I didn`t see you there. I lit the candles like you ordered and …the fire…I didn`t mean to sit there for long, Sir, but my hands were…I`m sorry.”

 

His last words were not much more than a whisper. The young man stared down at his hands, obviously expecting some kind of punishment. Viggo couldn`t believe that this man, Orlando, feared he would be punished for simply warming his hands. Why would he want to do something so cruel? How could he? He could never hurt Orlando, he loved him. He loved Orlando! Strange how he hadn`t realized that before, or maybe he just hadn`t remembered it.

 

“There is no need for you to apologize. If your hands are cold, you are welcome to warm them for as long as you like.”

 

As if to emphasize his words, Viggo took the other man`s hands in his. Orlando`s eyes widened at the unexpected touch and he quickly lowered his gaze again. Viggo thought he could see him blush slightly.

 

“Look at me”´, he said softly.

 

The young man hesitantly met his gaze and if Viggo had not already been certain of his feelings, that one look would have eradicated all doubt. He could hardly breathe, gazing into those dark, soulful eyes.

 

“Don`t look so scared”, Viggo whispered. ”Don`t you know that I would never hurt you?”

 

Viggo was not sure if Orlando believed him, but the young man nodded slowly and gave him the most heartbreaking smile he had ever seen. Suddenly Viggo became aware of several things all at once. How beautiful those hands were that he held in his, the way the fire made Orlando`s hair shine like polished ebony, the tiny dimple right under Orlando`s lower lip, the way his lashes cast long, trembling threads of shadow onto his sculpted cheekbones. All this alone would have been irresistible, but it was that shy, boyish smile that was Viggo`s undoing.

 

For a moment time seemed to stand still and then Viggo felt his hands reaching up, seemingly of their own accord, to gently clasp Orlando`s face. Slowly he leaned in, closer and closer, until he could feel the other man`s breath on his face. And finally, when Orlando didn`t draw back, he closed the gap between them and kissed him. It was just a gentle touching of lips, but it was enough to send a warm wave of tenderness washing over him. If it had been up to Viggo, they would have remained like this forever, one sweet kiss, shared for eternity. But despite of what he felt, he soon broke the kiss to look at the other man. He didn`t want to overwhelm him, especially since he was more than a little scared his feelings might not be returned.

 

For a few moments the young man was completely still, his eyes still closed, seemingly lost in the memory of their kiss. Then suddenly his eyes flew open again, his face turning into a perfect mask of surprise, as if he`d only now realized that his Master had kissed him.

 

“Sir, I had no idea…”,he whispered. Viggo`s heart sank.

 

“I have to apologize, I should not have…it was wrong of me to...kiss you”, he stammered.

 

Viggo mentally cursed himself, he must have gone insane! Orlando had to think that his earlier invitation was just his way of telling him that he might not get punished, but he certainly would have to pay.

 

“No!” The young man`s hands gently but firmly grasped his shoulders and prevented Viggo from drawing back.

 

“No, I mean.... I had no idea we felt the same,” he said breathlessly and for a moment he looked like someone teetering on the edge of a cliff, trying to find the courage to jump. And then it was him that closed the distance between them and their lips once more met in a tender kiss.

 

\-------------

 

Viggo didn`t know what had roused him, but suddenly the beautiful face so close to his had melted away and left him staring into the silent darkness of his bedroom. _Orlando!_ The mysterious face had a name now. _Orlando, Famous Land,_ Viggo recalled. And something else he recalled now, he loved Orlando.  Or at least _had_ loved him in that dream, because he couldn`t very well love someone who didn`t exist, could he? But this dream had been so different from the confusing nightmare of the previous night. It had felt like seeing everything through the eyes of a stranger then, like remembering someone else`s emotions.

 

That feeling had been completely absent now. He´d had no doubt that what he felt was what _he_ felt and yet... Viggo sighed, of course his brain might just have come up with the name Orlando because of that strange inscription on the window. A beautiful name to go with a beautiful face in a beautiful dream. It had been just another dream. Viggo was about to reach for the old alarm clock on the bedside table, when he felt something that let him freeze instantly. Someone was breathing against his neck!

 

At once a million incoherent thoughts flooded his mind. A burglar that wanted to make sure he was asleep, a dangerous lunatic that climbed into bed with his victims before killing them, a drunk that had lost his way and decided to sleep it off in his bed or maybe just a cat that had somehow got in? Viggo´s heart was racing and he felt tiny beads of perspiration form on his face. If it _was_ a burglar, the only thing he could do was pretend to sleep, even if the covers were stolen directly off him. Viggo tried to keep breathing as calmly as he could, when suddenly a warm hand touched his bare shoulder.

 

Inexplicably, all fear immediately left him at that touch. It felt soft and reassuring and, for some reason, as if he`d been expecting it. Viggo felt his entire body immediately relax and a delicious warmth flooded his limbs. A pleasantly light-headedness gently tugged on his eyelids, letting them close slowly. Yet somehow, he was still able to see. He could see the wooden ceiling above him and at the same time look down on himself lying in his bed, he noted with mild surprise. And something else he noted, he wasn`t alone. A slender figure was lying curled up right beside him, lightly touching his shoulder.

 

 _I missed you,_ he rather felt than heard the figure whisper, like someone talking in a dream and yet Viggo knew he wasn`t dreaming anymore.

 

 _I missed you too_ , he thought, realizing it was true. He _had_ missed that other man, terribly and for so very long. And somehow he also knew that he didn`t have to speak for his words to be heard.

 

 _You won`t leave me again, won`t you?_ The other man`s face was now hovering directly over Viggo`s, his eyes sweetly pleading.

 

 _No, my darling Orlando, I´ll never leave you again._ And this too was the truth. He would never leave Orlando again. For it was Orlando now finally beside him again. Where he always had belonged and always would.

 

The young man gave a small, happy laugh and Viggo felt lips, soft as rose petals, brush against his and then dot feather-light kisses all over his face, before returning to his mouth to suckle gently on his lower lip.”Mmmh,” he purred softly. God, this was crazy, what on earth was he doing?

 

 _I`m kissing the man I love,_ Viggo thought and nothing had ever felt so right. His eyelids still refused to open, yet he could see every lovely detail of the other man´s face. Orlando had propped himself up on his elbow and was lightly resting his forehead against Viggo`s.

 

 _Love me,_ he whispered pleadingly and fingers, soft like kitten`s paws, skimmed lightly across Viggo`s chest. He had never felt anything like that touch before. It wasn`t simply touching his body, but his very soul, as if warm tendrils of pure love were wrapping themselves around his entire being.

 

He found himself nodding without any second thought and eagerly raised his head, wanting to kiss those tantalizing lips again. But two strong hands on his shoulders stopped him, pushing him back onto the pillow. Orlando was smiling down at him with a mixture of shyness and mischief, and Viggo didn`t think he`d ever seen anything so erotic as this combination of innocence and desire, like a fawn with the eyes of a lion.

 

The dark head swooped down and a velvety tongue bushed across his throat, followed by teeth nipping lightly at his collarbone. Viggo gasped when the other man suddenly stroked his entire body against his in a graceful motion. Unable to suppress a moan, he reached up and ran his palms over Orlando`s shoulders, wanting to increase the touch. He was rewarded by a low purr against his throat and then a soft mouth closed around his left nipple, sucking lightly, while warm fingers caressed the other. For a few moments he simply surrendered himself  to the delicious sensations those soft lips evoked, but then Orlando switched from sucking to tenderly biting and licking the sensitive nub and Viggo found it impossible to lie still any longer.

 

He tangled his hands in the dark curls and let his fingers follow the graceful curve of the back of the young man`s head, playing with the feathery soft hair there. Apparently encouraged by his touch, Orlando slowly began to trail a moist path of small licks and kisses further and further down across Viggo`s stomach, pausing at the navel to teasingly flick his tongue into the tiny hollow before gently palming his erection through his boxers.

 

Viggo couldn`t bear the sweet torment any longer, he sat up and pulled the other man flush against him. It was incredible just to feel Orlando`s body writhe sensually in his arms, to feel his heartbeat against his chest, his breath on his face.

 

He could sense the heat of the young man`s rigid sex, pressing temptingly against his stomach. He kissed him deeply, nipping at the sensitive lower lip, hungrily coaxing his tongue into his mouth. Orlando tasted faintly of gingerbread, Viggo noted.

 

The young man moaned and arched his back, brushing his erection against Viggo`s. But just feeling wasn`t enough anymore, he needed to see, to touch. He slowly lowered the other man onto the mattress, so that now he was straddling his thighs. Looking down at him, he found himself awed once more by just how beautiful Orlando was. His caramel skin shimmered like liquid silver in the moonlight, his sculpted muscles seemed to vibrate with tension and his erection was already leaking pearly beads of moisture.

 

 _My beautiful Orli._ Orli! He had called him that hadn`t he?

 

The other man`s eyes widened in happy surprise. _You remember!_

 

Of course Viggo remembered, for a second he wondered how he could have forgotten. He nodded and then slowly moved to cover Orlando`s body with his. For a moment they just gazed at each other, leaving Viggo once again stunned by the sheer love he saw shining in the young man`s dark eyes.

 

Their mouths met again in a slow, deep kiss before Viggo began caressing the young man`s neck with his tongue, licking the sensitive Adam`s apple, feeling the fine tendons tense under his mouth, nipping lightly at the delicate collarbones. He traced Orlando`s chest with his hands like a blind man, following the path of his fingers with his mouth, trying to memorize every inch of skin he touched.

 

His lips found a tiny nipple and he caught it gently between his teeth, flicking his tongue across it until it hardened against his lips. Orlando moaned and began to shift under him, his hips pressing against Viggo`s, trying to increase the contact. Smiling against the young man`s chest, Viggo reached between their bodies and wrapped his hand around Orlando`s erection, not stroking yet but only squeezing him lightly.

 

The young man stilled instantly, concentrating completely on that intimate touch. His head had fallen back on the pillow and his eyes had slipped shut, his posture reminding Viggo of a certain Michelangelo statue.**Never taking his eyes of the beautiful man before him, Viggo began pumping him with slow, steady strokes. He found himself mesmerized by the sight of Orlando squirming with pleasure, his tongue repeatedly moistening his lips, his velvet-on-steel erection pulsating with need. Viggo wondered how on earth he could have thought he knew what beauty truly was before this. He wanted to feel every inch of Orlando`s skin against his lips, savour the other man`s essence. Experience him with every sense.

 

In a swift motion he swooped down and licked a bead of pearly fluid off Orlando´s sex. It tasted of…nothing really, as if he had just dipped his tongue into a clear spring, not at all that peculiar, salty taste he remembered.

 

Orlando gasped at the touch, his eyes flying open again. Viggo raised his gaze to meet Orlando`s and without breaking the eye contact, swallowed the young man`s erection to the hilt. He was pleasantly surprised to find he hadn`t lost that ability, although his last relationship with a man had been over ten years ago. For a moment he remained completely still, his gaze still fixed on Orlando`s flushed face, before starting a languid pace on the heated flesh between his lips, sucking only lightly, swiping his tongue across the sensitive head on every other stroke.

 

The young man`s chest was now rising and falling more and more rapidly and Viggo could feel him fight the urge to thrust into his mouth. He began to suckle a little harder now, massaging Orlando`s soft sac with his fingertips, adding still more stimulation. Orlando was now moaning with every stroke, his sex beginning to twitch against Viggo`s tongue. An involuntary purr of delight escaped his throat in response. He could feel just how very close to climaxing the younger man was, quickening his pace in response.

 

 _Stop!_   The word rung in his head, causing him to look up, startled. _Come inside me, please,_ Orlando`s voice, pleading almost desperately.

 

God, Viggo had probably never wanted anything so very badly. He ran his fingertips across the tip of Orlando´s erection, coating them with the milky fluid there, before beginning to gently massage the young man`s entrance.

 

 _No, please, I need you inside me now,_ Orlando`s arousal seemed to be bordering on pain, his entire body shaking with need.

 

 _But I don`t want to hurt you,_ although Viggo´s body was crying out to find his release between those slender thighs, the thought of hurting Orlando terrified him.

 

 _You won`t, my love, trust me,_ a warm hand brushed reassuringly across Viggo`s cheek, again spreading that incredible feeling of utter love through his entire body.

 

Unable and now unwilling to fight his desire any longer, Viggo wriggled out of his boxers and coated his erection with the creamy fluid. Breathing an involuntary sigh of relief, he carefully positioned himself between the young man´s thighs. Resting his weight on his forearms, Viggo gloried in the sensation of  his body finally touching Orlando´s so completely.

 

Smiling tenderly, his gaze met Orlando`s, seeking one final confirmation. Although he was beginning to feel dizzy with need, he would immediately stop should he see only the slightest hint of doubt in the other man`s eyes. Apparently sensing his apprehension, Orlando burst into a beatific smile and pulled him into a tender kiss. _Yes, my love, yes._

 

His lips still pressed to Orlando`s, Viggo sheathed himself in the young man´s body in one slow, smooth stroke. At that moment the earth seemed to stop turning, or maybe the earth had been still all this time and only now began to turn, Viggo would have been unable to tell. But this one incredible moment brought with it two realizations that equally appalled and delighted him.

 

The first being, that he had never been complete in his entire life, he had simply been one half of something that yearned to be whole again, that even during his happiest moments, something essential had been missing. But the other realization made all this seem utterly irrelevant, because now he _was_ complete. Now he knew what had been missing. Orlando, the angelic young man he was finally reunited with and just as important, his love for him. The knowledge that he wanted to cherish him, love him, hold him and never let him go. Not just in a dream but for the rest of his life. That without his love for Orlando, he could never be truly Viggo.

 

It surged through him like a searing flame, making him burn not only with passion but deep love for the young man beneath him _. I love you_ _and I will love you not only until the day I die, but long after the universe itself has turned to ashes. Even then will my love for you still remain_. It was all he could think as he now slowly started to move. Orlando was tight and hot around him, an exquisite, silken vise, pulsating hungrily with the young man´s racing heartbeat.

 

The pleasure was almost too intense to bear and Viggo bit down hard on his lip to regain control over his treacherous body. It was only too willing to surrender completely to those sweet sensations, begging him to plunge deep and hard into the other man. Yet even though it felt like denying a suffocating man oxygen, Viggo kept his thrusts slow and gentle.

 

A soft moan escaped Orlando`s lips as he began to move inside him, his hips rising to meet every thrust, slowly at first, but gradually growing in intensity. Encouraged by the other man`s responsiveness, Viggo changed his angle slightly and thrust just a little harder, hoping he hadn´t quite forgotten how to find that most pleasurable spot. Yet he need not have worried. Orlando released a strangled gasp when he stimulated his prostate, reflexively wrapping his legs around Viggo`s hips to draw him into his body as deeply as possible. Now it was Viggo`s turn to gasp, buried to the hilt in his lover`s tight grasp, his sac rubbing deliciously against Orlando`s firm buttocks.

 

The young man began to writhe uncontrolably, his every move enough to drive Viggo mad with desire. And still he resisted, almost afraid of the intensity of his feelings. Afraid of unleashing this all-consuming passion. _Please_. And then all of his defences crumbled to dust under the weight of that one whispered word. He withdrew almost completely from his lover`s body only to thrust back deeply again. Viggo had never really been able to imagine heaven. A state of bliss so all-encompassing and absolute, it eclipsed every fear, every doubt and every pain. An infinite moment of not experiencing joy, but becoming it.

 

And yet he could think of no other comparison. This wild, unbridled passion with which they loved each other, this complete surrender to another person, body mind and soul, _this_ had to be heaven. He thrust powerfully into Orlando again and again, stimulating the other man´s prostate every time, glorying in the soft little screams that every thrust now tore from his lips. Wrapping his arms around him, Viggo drew him closer still until only one heart seemed to be beating in their chests. Orlando moaned deeply again, his mouth a rosebud, opening only for Viggo, inviting him to drink of its sweet nectar.

And Viggo feasted on it, his tongue hungrily sliding into the young man`s mouth over and over again. He wanted nothing more than to increase Orlando´s pleasure still more, wanted to satisfy him with every cell of his body. Kissing him deeply again, he reached down between their joined bodies and began stroking him in time with his thrusts. Slick, hot velvet in his hand, under his tongue, against his chest and embracing his erection, Viggo felt as if he were drowning in the other man, ravenous even for the rapid, warm breaths escaping his lips.

 

Feeling the hot flesh begin to twitch in his grasp, Viggo began to thrust harder, deeper, needing Orlando`s release just as badly as his own. _Come for me, my love_ , a tender encouragement whispered almost subconsciously against his lover´s neck. And then blunt nails dug deeply into his shoulders, marking him in the most delicious way possible as Orlando´s sweat-glistening body arched beneath his, taut like a bowstring.

 

Tight muscles began to spasm violently around his erection, kneading it thoroughly before squeezing almost painfully tight. A hoarse moan, rising to a cry, tore from the young man´s throat as he found his release, hot creamy liquid splashing against Viggo`s stomach.

 

Viggo gasped at the now almost unbearable pleasure, he had never experienced anything like it. An indescribable hunger, pulsating between his thighs, making his erection throb heavily in desperate need for release. Burying himself to the hilt in the younger man, Viggo cried out in ecstasy as his now wildly twitching erection released spurt after powerful spurt of semen into his lover`s body.

 

Then everything around him semmed to explode in a white light, as if their joined bodies had suddenly been transformed into twin suns. And with that blinding light came a feeling Viggo knew he would never be able to describe, not if he lived for a thousand years, something he would never be able to forget. A feeling that, for a moment, there were not one but two souls within his body, his and Orlando`s, mingling and delighting in their union. And how those two souls were opened like a book for the other to read and every emotion, hope and dream they harboured was there for the other to see. For a moment Viggo thought he was going to die and for a second, he almost hoped it.

 

And then it stopped. Everything stopped. Everything his senses could experience seemed to be torn from him with cold, devastating brutality. And then somehow this too stopped and Viggo´s eyes flew open. There was only his room. Silent, dark and empty. He was alone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Arthur Rackham 1867-1939 British painter, most famous for his illustrations of children`s books.
> 
>  
> 
> **Viggo is thinking about Michelangelo´s magnificent “Dying Slave”.


	4. How the old moon turns to new

_And some night I`m going to ask him_

_How the old moon turns to new._

_I know the answer`s in his book_

_Of all that`s good and true._

_I`m sure the answer`s in his book_

_Of all that`s good and true._

 

 

 __________________________

 

 

 

For a few terrifying moments, Viggo felt as if he were falling into a black hole. Spinning ever deeper and deeper into a chasm of utter blackness, that not only devoured all light, but reality itself. He lay completely frozen, his body seemingly turned to ice, trying desperately to shake that dizzying feeling of disorientation that muffled all his senses. He would not have been able to say just how long he lay there like this, seconds crawling like hours before he gradually started to become aware of the sound of his own, still rapid breath, the seemingly only reminder that he was still alive. Yet his body felt numb and rigid like a corpse, gooseflesh forming under a cold sheen of sweat. It was then that he began to shake

 

Although he tried to dig his fingers into the mattress with all his might, he just couldn`t seem to keep himself from shuddering. It felt as if it would never again cease, as if his body might come apart from the violence of the tremors. Helplessly he felt tears beginning to stream down his face, tears he could neither understand nor stop. Jagged sobs escaping between his chattering teeth.

 

“Oh god!”

 

Just whispering those two words took an incredible effort, yet somehow they seemed to bring him a tiny shred of reality to cling to, so he said them again. His voice, shaky and brittle, still seemed startlingly loud and alien to his ears, as if it were a stranger´s. It took all his willpower to force his still shaking hand to reach for the switch of the little lamp on his bedside table. The sudden brightness stung his eyes, yet it at least allowed him to tighten his still all too tenuous grasp on reality somewhat again. And ever so slowly did the shaking finally begin to subside.

Gingerly, Viggo ran a hand across his eyes, almost afraid they too might dissolve under his touch. _What the hell is happening to me?_ He could probably now stop deluding himself that there certainly was some perfectly innocuous, normal explanation for everything that had happened to him over the last two days.

 

_Going mad is perfectly normal, people do it all the time._

But people didn`t just go mad that quickly, or did they? Was it that simple? Did your brain just throw a switch and you went from completely sane to hopelessly mad in seconds? Surely it couldn`t happen quite _that_ fast. Surely he would have experienced something like that before, if indeed he _was_ going mad. _Oh, but you have_ , a little voice in the back of his mind taunted, _just yesterday, in the garden, remember? This was only the more pleasant version of audio-visual hallucination._

But could you actually touch hallucinations? _Well, if you`re mad enough you probably can,_ Viggo thought, swallowing hard. Although he hadn`t really seen or heard anything, now had he? His eyes had been closed the entire time, so it actually had been more of a dream than a hallucination.

 

_But this wasn`t a dream, I know it!_ _I know it, because you can`t fall in love with a dream_ , Viggo thought defiantly. _But maybe you can fall in love with a ghost_ , the taunting little voice supplied.

 

Ghost! Viggo sat up with a painful jolt. But ghosts didn`t exist, or at least not like this. They were just stories people used to tell to give context and meaning to what they couldn`t explain. They were not real. They couldn`t be! His heart racing, he forced himself to get up. But, contrary to what he`d hoped, it did not make him feel any less vulnerable, it just made him feel more exposed. Exposed, terrified and foolish.

 

Slowly Viggo scanned his surroundings, half expecting some indescribable Thing to leap out at him from a dark corner. For some reason this old Scottish prayer played in an endless loop inside his head. A rather silly little rhyme, something you might teach a small child and yet Viggo couldn`t get it to stop.

_From ghoulies and ghosties and long legged beasties_

_And things that go bump in the night_

_Good Lord,deliver us!_

Over and over again. Yes, ghosts were supposed to be frightening weren`t they? They were supposed to be dark, grotesque shadows or eerily glowing, wailing wraiths, not enticingly beautiful creatures, full of warmth and life. You were supposed to recognize them for what they were, the second you laid eyes on them. Still more than a little jumpy, he forced himself to switch on every light in the room. If he stood with his back against a wall, he would be able to see the room`s every nook and cranny. It would also rule out the possibility of someone suddenly appearing behind him.

 

_Go on, look under the bed._

 

For a second Viggo seriously considered doing so.

 

_You realize you are making a fool of yourself, don`t you? Ghosts don`t exist._

Yes, maybe he _was_ making a fool of himself, but at the moment he was too confused and frightened to care. He stood completely motionless until the cold of the wall, that had begun to seep into his body, became increasingly unpleasant. _I can´t possibly stand here like this all night!_ His throat dry like parchment, Viggo finally dared to climb back into his suddenly so much less inviting bed.

 

Ready to jump out of his skin at every little gust of wind outside, every creak of the floorboards, he lay counting the minutes still separating him from dawn. The room, no, the entire _house_ seemed to have taken on a strange watching, waiting feeling. Never before in his life had he so fervently wished for a night to end.

 

When dawn finally did break, Viggo met it equally tired and relieved. He waited until the first pale rays of morning sun crept across the bed, before he finally dared to get up. Still unable to keep himself from casting furtive glances over his shoulder every now and then, he took an extremely unpleasant shower, half expecting _something_ to happen that would send him rushing out of the house in terror, dripping wet and naked. A short, nervous giggle escaped him at the thought.

 

_That`s right Vig, you go on practicing your mad cackle, you`ll soon have plenty occasions to use it._

After he`d showered and dressed, Viggo went downstairs into the kitchen but found himself lacking any appetite for breakfast. With a deep sigh he slumped onto a chair. His body felt completely drained of energy, yet his mind kept racing. What was he going to do? He had always considered himself a somewhat open-minded individual, or rather, he hoped he was. But not outright denying the possibility of the existence of ghosts and actually encountering them were two quite different things indeed. He had more or less accepted that there were only two plausible explanations for what he was experiencing, he either had unwittingly purchased a genuinely haunted house, or he had lost his mind.

 

_Maybe I have lost my mind, but I`ve lost my heart as well._

Yes, somehow that was what it all came down to in the end. No matter how frightened he might be now, he _had_ lost his heart and he knew he would never find it again, because it was _his_ now, Orlando`s. And Viggo didn`t know where Orlando was, he didn`t even know _what_ he was, but he found himself resenting the idea the young man could be only a figment of his imagination more and more. He _refused_ to believe it, because if Orlando was a ghost, then at least he existed in some way and then maybe he might be able to find him again somehow. Then he would not have to live the rest of his life incomplete and hurting for something he could never have. Viggo felt tears welling up in his eyes at the thought and swallowed hard. He had to find Orlando again, he just had to. But how? What could he possibly do? Suddenly he remembered the inscription on the window.

 

He rose and stared at it for a long time, reading those words over and over again as if they`d suddenly divulge their meaning to him, if only he read them often enough.

                                                      Orlando

                                                       Listen?

Did that mean that Orlando was supposed to listen, or that Orlando wanted him to listen? And listen for what? If Orlando had wanted to tell him something important, wouldn`t he have done so last night? Viggo gritted his teeth with frustration. If he only knew a little more about ghosts than what he`d heard in children`s stories, maybe then he`d understand this message. Angry at his own ignorance concerning the supernatural, he sat down again, resting his head in his hands.

 

_Try to remember what you do know about ghosts._

At once fragments of every ghost story he`d ever heard shot through his mind, howling Banshees, headless spectres, rattling rusty chains, fierce black dogs with fiery eyes, but nothing that transcended the realm of old wives tales. But then Viggo remembered something, an Ouija board! During his college days, there had never been a Halloween party without one. There`d always come the moment when one of them would suggest to hold a Seánce. Of course it had all been a joke then, nothing but a game. Everybody had been aware that they themselves were pushing the planchette around on the board. That had been the most fun about it, watching it spell out answers that grew sillier and sillier as the participants grew drunker and drunker.

 

None of them had ever really considered the possibility that it actually might work. Unfortunately, that also meant that Viggo hadn`t really any idea how to use an Ouija board, but that could be remedied and it would be at least worth a try. Of course before he could try, he`d have to find one of those boards. He doubted there were shops specializing in these kinds of things in the village. And of course, thanks to his refusal to bring even his mobile, ordering one online was out of the question too. But that didn`t really matter, hell, he`d drive back to London if that was what it took to obtain an Ouija board.

 

To his surprise, Viggo didn`t have to drive quite that far. He`d found what he was looking for in a toy shop in a town only about fifteen miles from the village. Odd that toy shops sold these boards, he thought. Particularly as he seemed to recall reading more than once about the potential negative effects the board could have, apparently especially on teenagers. ”Contact the Spirit World”, the board`s box read, maybe “Over one million slumber parties ruined”, would be more fitting, he thought wryly. But then he didn`t really know what the Ouija board might have in store for him, now did he? What would he do if something happened? What would he do if nothing happened?

 

Once back at the cottage, Viggo found himself oddly reluctant to venture back inside. Strange how the last 24 hours had changed his perception of the house. Although it was just as beautiful as before, there now seemed to be an indefinable air of wrongness about it. Almost as if it wanted to hide something from him. Like a perfect red, ripe apple might hide the bitterness of decay inside it. He wandered aimlessly around the garden for a while, always carefully avoiding the vicinity of the overgrown apple tree. Time seemed to equally fly and crawl. On one hand he was itching to try out the Ouija board, on the other hand he was frightened what it might divulge to him. Frustrated, he paused to crack his knuckles, there was something oddly calming about that.

 

_Maybe I ought to pack. At least a few essentials, just in case I have to...leave quickly._

 

 He didn`t want to be completely unprepared just in case something happened that was more than he could take, which in his current edgy state, he had to admit, would probably be not that much more.

 

The sun was just beginning to set, when he had finished packing. _Alright, here we go then._ Before he was able to change his mind again, Viggo quickly opened the box and laid out the Ouija board on the livingroom table. The tiny manual was somewhat vague on how to actually use it. There was no one definitive way to contact spirits, he learned, but it was suggested the participants light a candle, form a circle, place a finger on the planchette and try to enter a state of ”relaxed concentration,” whatever that was supposed to be. The manufacturers could also not be held responsible for failure to contact the spirit world. He cast a quick glance through the window before lighting the candle, the last rays of red evening sun had just vanished on the horizon. Viggo found that this didn`t really help him achieve any state of relaxation, but he had to try. Taking a couple of deep breaths, he placed his fingertips on the planchette and tried to focus on the Ouija board.

 

Now, how was he going to do this? What was he supposed to say? Would “Hi, this is Viggo, can I speak with Orlando please?”,be sufficient, or was maybe some kind of incantation needed? Feeling a bit awkward he began.

 

”I would like to contact the spirit that inhabits this house”, his voice sounded unpleasantly loud through the silence of the room.

 

“I would like to speak with Orlando, please if you can hear me, answer me or at least make your presence known in some other way.” The planchette did not budge even a millimetre.

 

“Orlando, if you are here, please give me some sign that you can hear me.” God, he felt stupid, begging an empty room to answer him, stupid and more than a little frightened of actually receiving an answer.

 

“Orlando, this is Viggo, please, if you can hear me, answer me.” Several long moments passed but the planchette showed no reaction, it might just as well have been glued to the board.

 

Viggo sighed, this was hopeless. He was just about to take his fingertips off the planchette, when he thought he felt a minuscule movement. Holding his breath, he stared at the board. Ever so slowly the planchette began to slide across the letters, with a mixture of fear and curiosity, he read the word it spelled out.

 

VIGGO

 

He almost jumped out of his chair.

 

”Yes, this is Viggo, Orlando is that you? ”He didn`t know what he`d do if the answer was no.

 

WHERE ARE YOU

 

What was that supposed to mean?

 

”I`m in the house, in the livingroom”, Viggo answered, his heart racing.

 

I CANT SEE YOU

 

Why couldn`t Orlando see him, if indeed this was Orlando?

 

“I`m right here, at the table.”

 

I CANT SEE YOU

 

Viggo felt despair well up inside him, how could that be? Orlando had been able to see him before, hadn`t he? Before he could ask another question, the planchette began to move again.

 

DID YOU HEAR THAT

 

Hear what? Viggo strained his ears, but couldn`t hear anything, utter silence reigned in the house.

 

”No, I didn´t hear anything”, he said, his voice decidedly shaky.

 

WHO IS THAT THERE WITH YOU

 

Viggo found himself involuntarily shrinking from the surrounding darkness, casting apprehensive glances at the dancing shadows on the walls. There was nobody with him…hopefully.

 

”There`s nobody here with me.” He prayed that was the truth, suddenly he was beginning to feel very cold.

 

WHO IS THAT

 

Something like panic rising up in his throat ,Viggo once more scanned the room for whoever was supposed to be there with him, but again found himself alone.

 

“There`s nobody here but me, I…”Suddenly the planchette moved so violently, it almost slipped from his fingertips.

 

NO

 

Again and again.

 

NONONONONO

 

To Viggo`s utter dismay, the candle seemed to grow dimmer with each letter the planchette spelled out. He tore his hands away, hoping to stop it from flitting over the same word over and over in its maniacal dance. To no avail. The candle flickered once, then went out. He now sat surrounded by complete darkness. The moment the light disappeared, They were back again.

 

Orlando had been right, he wasn`t alone. They seemed to have emerged from the walls as if they were part of the house, silent watchers to everything that happened inside it. Viggo felt them move around him in a frightening, swaying motion, drawing nearer and then back again. They were scrutinizing him. Even his experience in the garden was nothing compared to this and he wondered briefly if this was what it felt like to die of fright. Cold sweat was beginning to trickle down his back. He considered bolting, but that would mean having to pass them and that was something he simply could not bring himself to do.

 

Suddenly a powerful blast of icy wind swept over him, rushing towards the door. It threw him off his chair like a ragdoll. Viggo`s head hit the floor hard, white light exploding before his eyes, leaving him half dazed  Through the fog inside his head, he thought he could hear a strange crashing noise emanating from the room above, as if a very strong man was throwing himself against a door with all his might. He covered his ears in a vain attempt to shut out the hideous sounds. This was getting just far too much for him to take. In helpless desperation, Viggo began to say every prayer he knew. Half remembered fragments of supplications and pleas for divine help tumbling from his lips between panicked gasps. He was beginning to fear the terrifying clamour would last all night, when the noise stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

 

_It `s not over yet, I can feel it. They`re still here!_

He was right. The ghostly silence suddenly shattered again under the sound of something heavy falling to the floor in the room above. Completely still and hardly breathing, Viggo lay there, terrified that any movement from him might trigger another violent reaction of some sort.

 

Suddenly he noticed something out of the corner of his eye, a tiny, flickering movement. Daring to shift his head a little, he saw a small, blue flame, dancing over the floorboards quite close to him. Strangely enough, he didn´t feel threatened by it. There seemed to be nothing malevolent about it, it just silently hovered there. Viggo fervently hoped it would stay, he didn`t think he could bear being abandoned in complete darkness again. Not while They were still there. But after only a few more seconds, the little flame disappeared as suddenly as if it had been switched off and with it disappeared everything else. Somehow he knew beyond any doubt, that at least for the rest of the night, the house would be quiet. That the extinguishing of that flame, had signalled the end of those frightening disturbances. They were gone now. Although it was still dark around him and he was still badly shaken, Viggo was certain that this darkness harboured no dangers for him anymore tonight. Standing up cautiously, he groped for the matchbox on the table and re-lit the candle.

 

His invisible intruders had left no traces of their presence and, although the wind had been strong enough to throw him off his chair, the planchette was still resting on the board. As far as he could tell, nothing else had been moved. Still feeling quite dazed, Viggo switched on the light above the table. Yes, even under the brightness of the lamp, everything seemed to be exactly as it had been before. He heavily slumped onto his chair again, his legs still feeling like rubber. Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair as if the gesture could calm the confusion reigning inside his head. The utter sense of horror he`d felt only minutes before, was slowly giving way to a dull feeling of exhaustion. As if he had woken from a restless, nightmare- troubled sleep, feeling bone weary instead of refreshed.

 

What was he to make of what had happened? Had that first spirit really been Orlando? Why had those horrible dark beings appeared again and, more importantly, what were they and what did they want? Had they been responsible for those terrifying crashing noises? He didn`t need to check to know that he would find no trace of who or what had produced that noise. He wearily shook his head and sighed again. His eyes fell on the floorboards where the little flame had appeared. Viggo again wondered why it hadn´t scared him. Maybe because it had been the only light separating him from complete darkness? It had looked a bit how he imagined Will o`the Wisps to look like. Weren`t Will o`the Wisps supposed to be lost souls? If only he could remember. An unpleasant thought suddenly crossed his mind.

 

_What if there`s a body buried there?_

Holding his breath as if the thought alone could cause some horrible ghoul to rise out of the ground, reaching for him with ghostly fingers, he rose to get a closer look of the board over which the flame had hovered. It didn`t appear to be any different to all the others. No visible damage or signs that might point to it having been replaced. He knelt down next to it, giving it a light rap of his knuckles. If indeed there was something hidden directly underneath it, he just might be able to detect it. If there was something buried deeply in the ground however, there was no way he`d discover it without tearing up the entire floor. Suddenly there was what he`d been half fearing, half hoping for, a distinctly hollow sound. He knocked again to make absolutely sure his ears had not deceived him. They hadn`t, there definitely _was_ a hollow space under that board. Although to his relief it, was nowhere near big enough to contain a body.

 

_There is something hidden there, something that has to do with Orlando._

Something that had to do with Orlando and Viggo was determined to find out what that was. So, should he just see if he could find a crowbar somewhere and force up the floorboards? Could that be done without completely ruining the floor? In the end, that was the only way to reach whatever was beneath it and maybe if he was careful….But he was fooling himself, Viggo knew that he would selfishly tear up the floor in every room, if he thought that it would help him find Orlando. He stared at the board in frustration, as if he could somehow see through it if he only stared hard enough. There wasn´t really anything he could do now apart from waiting for the sunrise. Then he could still drive into town and buy a crowbar and maybe get some advice on how to remove the board without causing too much damage.

 

He had barely finished that train of thought, when he found himself in the kitchen, feverishly opening every drawer and cupboard, looking for something that he could use in lieu of a crowbar. The floors were usually the first thing that got replaced in old houses, so this wouldn`t really be that big of a deal. Besides, it wasn´t like this was Shakespeare`s birthplace or something like that anyway, he tried to reason away his qualms about maybe ruining the entire room. He briefly considered a huge knife he found in one of the drawers but quickly put it back again, the blade was nowhere near sturdy enough and would probably snap immediately. It seemed as if he would have to wait until tomorrow after all. Gritting his teeth in vexation, he opened the tiny broom closet, right next to the kitchen door. It contained an array of cleaners, a mop and two buckets, but nothing that could have been useful to him at the moment.

 

He was about to slam the door shut again to continue his search, when his gaze fell onto something lying on the floor in a corner of the closet. A huge, old screwdriver that had apparently been misplaced and then forgotten about. He picked it up to get a closer look, it was pretty heavy and almost as long as his forearm. _It just might do the trick, he_ thought. _Or it might not and you`ll ruin the floor or injure yourself._

Ignoring the warning voice in his head, Viggo determinedly went back into the living room and knelt down next to the hollow sounding spot on the floor. He knew there couldn´t be a body hidden underneath it, but he didn`t know what there _could_ be. What if there was nothing at all? _There has to be something. I know it!_

He jabbed the screwdriver under the board, careful to use just enough force not to cause it to splinter. It was even harder than he`d thought. He slowly moved the screwdriver from side to side until he could feel the board give ever so slightly. His wrist was beginning to hurt from the tension, when suddenly with a shrill creak, the board popped out. A cloud of dry, grey dust exploded into his face, leaving him coughing and wiping his eyes.

 

When the dust had settled and he`d stopped coughing, Viggo warily peeked into the dark recess. He couldn`t believe his eyes, there under a thick layer of dust and cobwebs, lay something he, although it was impossible, knew he`d seen before. A small book, bound in wine-coloured leather. The book Orlando had been writing in, in his first dream. With shaking hands he picked it up, almost scared to touch it. The leather was dry and brittle under his fingers and Viggo felt a strange feeling creep over him. Could this really be Orlando`s book? It had to be at least a couple of decades old, judging by the condition of the leather. Slowly and as carefully as possible, he opened it. His breath caught in his throat at what he saw. There was what seemed to be a dedication written on the first page.

 

                                                                    To my beloved Orli

And it was in his own handwriting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. And the Spirits speak of Secrets

#                                                                                                 _  
_

  _And the master hears the whispers_

_On the stairways dark and still_

_And the spirits speak of secrets_

_In the house upon the Hill_

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Why do I still have to dream about him? Why can`t I let him go? Deep down inside, I know he will never come back and sometimes I even think I can live with that knowledge. Why do I have to dream he`s come back to tell me he`ll never leave me again and why does it hurt so much to realize that that is still all I really want?

 

I keep forgetting when it was that I last saw him, was it months ago? Years? Sometimes it feels as if I`d seen the seasons change outside my window hundreds of times since he left me. Why can`t I forget him?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

 

Viggo`s hands began to shake, causing the words to blur before his eyes. It couldn`t be! He had to be mistaken, that couldn`t be his own handwriting!

 

_It is and you know it._

“This is insane!”

 

The startling loudness of his voice caused him to jump and reflexively drop the book as if it had turned scorching hot. The offending lines still seemed to glare up at him from the floor.

 

Swallowing hard, he ran a hand across his eyes, trying to suppress the nausea rising in his throat. There _had_ to be another explanation.

 

Maybe his eyes had played a trick on him, the time when he`d trusted them to show him nothing more than what was reality was over. Viggo forced himself to take a few deliberate slow breaths, waiting for his heart to stop racing as if it wanted to hammer its way out of his chest. It was only an old book, nothing that could hurt him. But then, this was only an old house, something that shouldn`t be able to hurt him either and yet…

 

 

 

For a few moments he just dully stared at the book on the floor, listening to the faint rush of blood in his ears, his brain seeming to have decided to shut down temporarily. There had to be a logical explanation for this, there had to be! With his heart still seeming to pound somewhere in his throat, he finally forced himself to pick up the book again. Holding it like an Arachnophobe would a Tarantula, he scrutinized the words over and over in the light of the lamp, unable to shake that utterly surreal feeling that had taken possession of him.

 

_This must be what it feels like to read your own headstone._

 

Maybe he _was_ reading his own headstone. From now on, there was no way he could deny anymore that he was _meant_ to be involved in this mystery and maybe always had been.

Maybe the house had been waiting for him for centuries, waiting patiently for fate to lead him to its door, harbouring a secret it would reveal to nobody but him.

 

_But why? Why?_

 

Blinking, as if he still couldn`t accept what he saw, Viggo dropped the book on the table. He wanted to bang his head against the wall, anything to drown out this overwhelming dread and confusion. Instead he dug his fingers into his hair and gave it a good yank.

 

“Ow!”

 

He felt frightened and foolish, pulling his hair and staring at a book as if it were a venomous snake, ready to attack him.It seemed to taunt him, lying there on the table, seemingly harmless. Just on old book, nothing more. And yet there was something about it that Viggo couldn`t describe. A strange, eery aura. It seemed to beckon him, to dare him to read it.

 

Somehow this book was the final threshold. The point at which he would have to decide whether he would just put it back to wait for someone braver than him to discover it, and returned to London to try and forget everything that had happened, or whether he would dare to read it even at the risk of getting caught up even more in something he couldn´t even begin to understand.

 

But if this really _was_ his handwriting, hadn`t he been caught up in it all along? And more importantly, if this was Orlando`s book, then what choice did he have? How could he _not_ read it? How could he just waste what was maybe the only chance he had of at least discovering who Orlando was? Could he really throw away what was most probably his only chance to find out the truth?

 

Suddenly realizing that he had begun to pace up and down the room, Viggo paused and shook his head.

 

_No, I can`t … I won`t._

 

He would rather regret something he had done, than something he was to cowardly to do. Better to know a terrifying truth than carry the burden of questions never to be answered for the rest of his days, of wondering what could have been if only he`d been braver.

 

His mind made up, Viggo picked up the book again and, holding his breath, turned the first page. Just a single, brief glimpse of the delicate letters it contained, sent an incredible sense of familiarity rushing through him with an almost dizzying intensity. It felt as if he had suddenly re-discovered a picture of an old friend that he`d long believed lost. He knew this hand like his own.

 

The first words he read immediately brought tears to his eyes.

 

Orlando loves Viggo

 

He had seen countless variations of that sentence in his life, with probably every combination of names existing on the planet. Scribbled into schoolbooks with a leaky pen, or carved into trees or benches, but never had these words been more to him than a somewhat touching expression of puppy love. But now they moved him more than a hundred poems of love ever could have. He gently ran his still shaking fingers over the faded letters, wishing he could instead caress the hand that had written them.

 

 

Orlando loves Viggo

 

 

_Yes, and Viggo loves Orlando, as crazy as it might seem._

 

 

But that man whom Orlando loved, that couldn´t really be him? That man, that had shared not only his name, but his handwriting. Viggo closed his eyes, confusion threatening to overwhelm him once more. He was very well aware that the one thing that might get him closer to an answer to that question, might just as well lead him only deeper into a dark maze of mysteries he wouldn`t be able to solve.

 

_There has not been a turning back for me from the second I first saw him. Not really_

 

If those pages contained only a single word that would somehow bring him closer to Orlando, it would be worth it. Determined to see whatever it was the book would disclose to him, he finally dared to open his eyes again. His gaze fell on a small, dark mark on the bottom of the open page. He had only a second to recognize what it was, before a blinding flash of light hit his eyes. It could only have lasted as long as it took for lightening to strike, but in that tiny moment a storm of images flooded his mind.

 

Orlando, sitting at a coarse oak table, concentratedly writing into the book.

The tip of a knife, creating a small slit at the bottom of a page to hold the stem of a pressed flower.

Orlando, smiling down on a tiny sketch of Viggos face.

Ink stained hands, deftly concealing the book under a loose floorboard.

 

 

And then Viggo was suddenly just staring at his hands holding the book again.

 

The dizzying shifting of realities making his legs buckle underneath him, he ungracefully collapsed in a heap, barely managing to avoid hitting his head on the leg of a chair. Viggo had to blink several times before he was certain again of where he was.

 

 _I´ve seen him!_ Was all he could think.

 

Not an insubstantial ghost or a dream, but a living, breathing Orlando. This time his eyes had been open, this time there could be no mistake. Somehow, he was certain that the little book had allowed him a glimpse of something that _had_ happened. So at least Orlando couldn`t be a figment of his imagination.

 

_Oh, thank god!_

 

He was aware that, considering the unbelievable things he`d experienced in a single night that wasn`t even over yet, he ought to feel more than this strange mixture of excitement and relief that he was feeling at the moment.

 

_You`re experiencing a state of elation, caused by a sudden endorphin kick, produced by your body in particularly stressful situations._

 

This was probably at least partly true. It felt almost if he were slightly intoxicated, the fear and confusion he`d felt being drowned out by the sheer relief at having seen Orlando again, even if ever so briefly.

 

Still somewhat dizzy, he slowly rose and unsteadily tottered over to the plush couch, plunking himself onto it with a weary groan. His heart still raced as if he`d consumed ludicrous amounts of caffeine, yet keeping his eyes open was becoming more and more difficult. It had to be almost dawn. Looking through a window, he could see a thin pink line appearing on the horizon, as if to signal that it was safe to sleep now.

 

He heaved a tired sigh, the adrenaline in his blood now finally dissipating, exhaustion began to tug on his heavy eyelids and the room seemed to sway slightly around him. The sun would be up soon.

 

_And at the first ray of dawn, the Trolls will turn to stone._

 

Where had that thought come from? Was it something he`d read once, something his mother had told him? Viggo shook his head, it felt so heavy, he imagined he could almost feel his brain bounce against the inside of his skull. He desperately needed rest, but couldn`t bring himself to get up again, his bedroom now seeming miles away. The couch would have to do for tonight. Clutching the book to his chest, he snuggled as deeply as possible into the couch´s fluffy embrace, and within minutes was asleep.

 

It was almost noon when he woke again, the sun casting stripes of yellow brightness across his face. The first thing he became aware of, was his arms, hurting somewhat from being crossed over his chest for so long. He must have been clutching the book the entire time. The book! That mysterious book he`d discovered when a little Will o`the Wisp had shown him where to look after those dark beings had appeared….

 

“Jesus”, he muttered, slowly opening his eyes to the brightness. His still sleep-addled brain allowed him a few more moments of pleasantly detached contemplation, before it all finally came crashing down on him with full force. The sheer terror those ominous black beings had evoked in him, followed by the giddiness the book had inspired and, of course, the confusion that seemed to have become his constant companion. Sitting up with a jolt, Viggo was suddenly wide awake.

 

_So, what are you going to do now?_

 

If he was honest, he still had no idea, but he knew there were a few questions he had to ask himself before he could make that decision. The most important probably being, did he want to risk the possibility that those dark creatures might be able to harm or maybe even kill him?

 

Yes, maybe they _could_ kill him, that meant they would end a life that, as he knew now, would never be complete without Orlando. Strange, he was wealthy and considered talented and handsome by many and he was aware that there were people who envied him, yet somehow he felt that without Orlando, he didn´t have anything at all. Right now, the thought of having to go on living alone seemed much more frightening than the thought of dying.

 

It was not quite so easy to find an answer to the second question, what _could_ he do now? Should he try and seek the advice of an expert, if indeed there was such a thing as an expert on ghosts? Should he maybe just casually ask a couple of the villagers if they`d ever heard of anything untoward in connection with the cottage? Hadn`t the lady in the shop mentioned something about every house having its own ghost story?

 

_I have to read the book before I can decide any of that._

 

Maybe the book would provide him with enough answers to make any enquiries of that sort unnecessary? Of course on the other hand it might just make everything even less clear. Viggo stared at the cover for a few moments before daring to open it again. Would the pages melt away under his gaze? Would reality crumble away around him again? Bracing himself, he began to read.

 

He couldn`t recall ever having been so completely drawn in by a book, as if he were holding the only true reality in his hands instead of being surrounded by it. He learned that Orlando had worked as a stable boy at a castle which, much to Viggo`s regret, he never named. He had originally lived and worked in a neighbouring village, but when his employer there had died, had come to the castle looking for work. Unfortunately, that was all Viggo could glean from the book concerning Orlando´s past, as the young man almost exclusively wrote about his days spent with his namesake. It was not just a journal, it was the chronicle of Orlando´s love for this man. He felt a slight pang of jealousy of this other Viggo for being able to share more with Orlando than just the few precious moments that he had been granted.

 

He read Orlando´s description of their first encounter and found himself nodding in agreement, recalling the image of the young man barefoot in the snow. Orlando had lost his only pair of shoes in the half-frozen mire behind the castle, trying to re-capture a horse that had escaped from the stables. Viggo hadn`t known that. He read how the other Viggo had given Orlando several new pairs of shoes, how Orlando later had been allowed to work in the kitchens and how delighted he had been by this opportunity to be near his master. How he had always tried to secretly steal a glimpse of him when he and the other servants carried the heavy platters of delicacies to the banquet table.

 

Once his master had remarked on Orlando`s beautiful hands and asked him if he`d allow him to sketch them. The young man had agreed and they had sat together in silence, Orlando nervously trying not to stare at his master while the other man had sketched his hands. Every single word he read, seemed to make Orlando more real to him, every entry helped to paint the picture of a sensitive, witty and intelligent young man, made it more and more vivid until he was certain that when he put the book down, Orlando would have to be there, standing right in front of him.

 

He subconsciously ran his fingertips across his lips as he read the recounting of their first kiss, touched by just how much it had meant to the other man, how it had been something he had dreamed of for a long time but never would have dared to hope for.

That kiss had been the beginning of a tender courtship between him and his master. They would often sit before the fireplace together and the master would tell an enraptured Orlando about all those faraway places he`d been to in his youth, or read one of the books from his vast library to him. Every word Viggo read seemed to send a new flood of images, of memories bursting into his mind like the flowers of spring, bursting through the frozen soil of winter. He could see them sitting together on a rug in front of a huge fireplace, Orlando´s head resting against his shoulder.

 

_He was always trying to decipher the words, so I asked him if he wanted me to teach him to read and write._

 

 _That`s why I gave him the book, yes_ I _gave him the book!_

 

A sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob escaped Viggo´s throat.

 

_Of course, how could I ever forget that?_

 

Still between laughter and tears, Viggo read on and began to remember. When spring had arrived, they had often gone for long walks along the brook to then lie together in comfortable silence under one of the blossoming trees. He could see himself, running his fingers through Orlando´s dark curls, brushing away delicate apple blossom petals, their soft pink and white seeming to reflect the young man´s creamy complexion. Viggo heaved a deep sigh and for a moment he imagined, he could smell the heady fragrance of spring.

 

He found he only had to read fragments of sentences, or sometimes only single words to cause a memory to rise from the darkness of his subconscious, a memory that although it was impossible, Viggo now knew was not someone else´s. He just _knew_ that he was the one Orlando had written about, he always had been. He was the man that Orlando so often described as “kind” and “beautiful,” he was the man that Orlando had loved.

 

He felt a wave of warmth spread from his stomach throughout his body, as he read how Orlando had enjoyed their growing physical closeness, how the scent of his master`s skin had made his heart race and how he`d wished he could see more, feel more of this skin. How his desire for his master had grown with each day they`d spent together and how he had begun to long for the unity of their bodies. Oh yes, Viggo remembered that too. Their kisses had turned into shy caresses that had grown in intensity and passion, just like around them the gentleness of spring had given way to the heat of summer. It had been summer when they had made love for the first time.

 

Viggo recalled how they had gazed into the balmy night afterwards, still kissing and holding each other, basking in the afterglow of their passion. He closed his eyes, the memory so vivid, he could almost feel the warm body next to his, could almost smell the soft scent of the other man`s skin, could almost touch him, almost. As if all his senses were suddenly beginning to remember, his body started to tingle with the memory of touches it had never felt in reality. It had been so good, so beautiful. It had been everything that love was supposed to be and yet so rarely was, it had been perfect.

 

They had lain on the bed together, just kissing, savouring each others mouths, unable to get enough, before they had eventually started to slowly undress each other. Viggo recalled the absolute feeling of wonder, he had known Orlando had a beautiful body, he just hadn`t known _how_ beautiful. It had been like discovering a treasure. He had kissed every bit of newly uncovered skin, finding it hard to believe anything could feel even more blissful, until Orlando had overcome his initial shyness, and he himself was submitted to the gentle exploring of a velvety tongue and soft, warm hands.

 

Viggo stretched luxuriously on the couch, giving himself over entirely to the memory of that delightful touch. They had fanned the flames of each other`s desire until Orlando had lain in his arms, shaking with need, his lips pink and swollen from his kisses, his eyes dark with lust.

He had whispered into Viggo´s ear, begged him to love him.

 

_I would have done anything for him, would have given him everything I owned including my life had he asked it from me._

 

Their union had been the most indescribably sweet experience he could ever have dreamed of.

So very slow and gentle at first, simply both of them enjoying the feeling of their joined bodies and then more and more passionate, with every subtle movement triggering an entire cascade of pleasure, till they thought they would die in each other`s arms from sheer bliss.

 

Viggo could feel a tear course down his cheek, although his body was filled with the warmth of remembered desire. It had been so beautiful, as if they´d become love itself instead of just being in love. And yet somehow this love had eventually ended, but how and why?

 

_I had promised him forever, hadn`t I?_

 

Yes, he remembered now, he had given Orlando a gold ring with both their names engraved. Of course it would have been impossible for the young man to openly wear it, but Viggo had wanted to give him a token of his promise to be with him and be there for him for the rest of his days.

 

_But was I? Did I keep that promise?_

 

He just had to know, he flipped over another two pages filled with the elegant hand only to find page after page empty. The entries had simply stopped for no apparent reason, the last one seemingly incomplete. Orlando had been waiting for his master to return from some unspecified festivity but never noted if he`d come back or anything else after that.

 

Was that it? What that what had happened? Had this man, had _he_ never returned? Could he have done that? Viggo felt hot anger well up inside him at the thought. Why hadn`t he taken Orlando with him? Had he simply left him, hurt him so deeply, he had never written a single word about him again?

 

Viggo felt his heart hammer in this throat. Had he destroyed the only perfect thing he`d ever known?

 

“Tell me I didn`t leave you!”

 

He said it out loud. A pointless plea to an empty page, an empty house. Only silence answered.

 

“I left you, didn`t I?”

 

How could he have done that? _Why_ would he have done something so terrible? Had this other Viggo maybe died, wherever it was that he`d gone? He couldn`t think of any other sane reason. He covered his mouth with his hand as if to stifle the sobs that were threatening to choke him. He didn`t realize that he had already begun to cry, until he saw his tears create small, dark stains on the dusty floor. He didn`t _want_ to cry, not for his own sake and certainly not out of self pity. If he really had left Orlando, he deserved to be miserable, he deserved to feel like his heart had been ripped out of his chest for the rest of his life. Wiping furiously at his eyes, Viggo suddenly became aware of a noise. A soft, barely audible sound, like that of a marble rolling slowly across a smooth surface.

 

A small, round object was moving across the floor towards him. Viggo gave a startled yelp, he wanted to move, wanted to pull up his legs,  didn`t want that thing, whatever it was, to touch him, yet his body seemed to be completely petrified. When the object came to a halt with a small tinkling noise, mere inches away from his feet, he jumped as if lightening had struck right next to him.

 

It was a ring, a golden ring.

 

 

_I don`t believe it!_

 

 

He refused to pick it up, he didn`t have to, he knew whose names he would find engraved on the inside.

 

 

 


	6. How a soul may find the way...

_Getting lost is how you learn._

_It`s a maze this garden, it`s a maze of paths_

_Meant to lead a man astray._

_Take a left and then turning left again`s_

_How a soul may find the way…_

 

 

 

But if the ring...

 

“Orlando?”

 

He`d said it out loud even before he`d had time to think. Orlando couldn´t be here, it was impossible. He was nothing but a memory, a sweet dream. “Impossible”, Viggo whispered to himself, as if to crush all vain hope that yet somehow it might not be. And yet he found himself peering cautiously into the small hallway, wide –eyed and trembling, wondering what he´d do if indeed someone _was_ waiting there for him.

 

But nothing but silence greeted him, the room looking quaintly peaceful as always, dust motes dancing lazily in the sunlight that fell through the small window next to the front door. He released a breath he hadn´t realized he´d been holding. He attempted a weak chuckle at the acute, unreasonable disappointment cutting through him, but it lodged in his throat like a sob. Hanging his head in defeat, he slumped against the doorframe, allowing his sad, muddled thoughts to wash over him like a murky river.

 

Rushing past like flotsam, none of them taking hold long enough to be more than a confusing fragment, broken solely by a tiny light that yet appeared like a beacon in the turmoil. The ring. Viggo imagined he could almost feel its shimmer on his back like sunlight. And yet, the sun could not just warm you. It could burn you up and turn you to ashes. He shuddered involuntarily before forcing himself to turn around.

 

Could this innocuous little thing somehow turn him to ashes too? It shimmered dully in the sunlight. It was just a harmless bit of gold, wasn`t it?

 

He crouched down and gazed at it for a moment, feeling his apprehension subside gradually. What did it matter how the ring had found its way to him again? Didn`t he already know in his heart of hearts that he wouldn`t care, even if the Devil himself had placed it at his feet?

 

He reached out and gently closed his fingers around the small object. For a few seconds he half expected it to trigger another flashback, but his surroundings remained unchanged. The ring felt slightly warm in his hand, as if somebody had only recently taken it off.

 

_I wonder if it is mine._

 

He opened his hand and, as he`d already known, the ring bore the familiar engraving. A sudden feeling of intense bitterness washed over him. Was that all that was left of their love? A small piece of gold, the singular remains of something more precious than all riches in the world? He tried slipping it onto his finger, but it was too small. It had to be Orlando`s ring then.

 

 _Why did I find your ring, why not mine? Don`t you want it anymore? Did you hate_ him… _do you hate_ me _now?_

 

It would be only too understandable. If he had actually left him, Viggo _wanted_ Orlando to hate him. But he had seen him, he had felt him, had experienced him with his body and his soul and there had been nothing but love. Love he wasn`t sure he deserved.

 

He pressed the ring gently to his lips. ”I`m going to find out what happened to you…to us. And I´m going to find you again, I promise.”

 

He had to believe it, just had to.

 

He slid the ring onto his pinky finger. If he had to spend the rest of his life in this village, in this house, he wouldn`t care. If he had to spend every waking moment from now on trying to find something again that was lost forever, then so be it. Everything else seemed trivial now anyway. Yes, he could even bear never painting again if only, he would find his love again.

 

And he wouldn´t wait another second. Still wearing yesterday`s clothes and only half-heartedly smoothing his still sleep-ruffled hair, he rushed out of the house and almost jumped into his car. He was sure that if he wanted to discover what had happened to Orlando, he had to find out more about the history of the house. Somehow he knew that the house was the key.

 

Despite the smallness of the town, it took him longer than expected to locate the tiny public library. The library seemed to be the most logical place to start. A pale, red haired young man, typing away at a computer, only cast him a brief glance upon his entrance, as if he could hardly bring himself to divert his attention from the monitor for even the shortest while.

 

He didn`t give Viggo the impression of someone likely to have any interest or belief in the supernatural. He glanced around. A “Gardening” sign swung ever so lightly on glinting nylon threads above an older man thumbing through a faded hardcover, and the feet of two or three other people moved slowly behind the shelves.

 

In a corner, a lone public computer hummed softly. To think he´d left his tablet in his apartment on purpose. Viggo pulled up an uncomfortable formica chair, not sure how to formulate his search, eventually simply typing “What are ghosts?”. At least he wouldn`t be able to complain about a dearth of results, he thought wryly. Apart from simple definitions of the concept, there seemed to be thousands of homepages of “ghosthunting” societies and psychic research groups from all over the world, paranormal messageboards and collections of supposedly real ghostly encounters.

 

 After sifting through the results for about an hour, Viggo concluded that there were four theories that seemed the most popular. The first was the “stone tape”, according to which ghosts were nothing more than recordings of things that had happened in the past, which had somehow become imprinted on their surroundings. Those ghosts always repeated the same actions and never acknowledged their observers or interacted with them. Now that certainly hadn`t been true for his experience.

 

Another theory, and probably the most scientific one, explained ghosts as simply the effects that infrasound could have on the human eye under certain circumstances. Apparently infrasound could, at a certain frequency, cause the eyeball to resonate, thus creating the illusion of grey or white apparitions, usually only seen from the corner of the eye. Viggo couldn`t help smiling wryly to himself. If what he had experienced had been caused by infrasound, it must have had an intensity that would probably have measured at least a four on the Richter scale.

 

Although they were the most fantastical ones, Viggo felt that the remaining two possible explanations were also the most likely for his experience. The first was by far the oldest of course. That age- old belief that ghosts were the unquiet souls of the dead, either choosing or having been condemned to wander among the living forever. He had felt sadness weigh down on his chest like a stone as he`d read about mediums reporting of conversations with these poor souls, which almost always seemed confused and disoriented at best or angry and terrified at worst. In the light of this knowledge, a simple infrasound- evoked illusion suddenly seemed so much more merciful, even if that would mean that there never had been an Orlando.

 

The last theory he had come across was the time slip. The most famous account of this phenomenon had been written down by two school mistresses after their visit to Versailles at the beginning of the twentieth century*. The time slip explanation purported that under some circumstances it was possible for people to simply wander into the past, not only allowing them to experience their surroundings as they had been hundreds or even thousands of years ago, but also to interact with anyone they might encounter there.

 

 Could that possibly be what had happened to him, Viggo wondered. Some of the, admittedly very few, accounts of supposed time slips mentioned a strange stillness that had suddenly settled over everything. Muffled sound and muted colours accompanied by an odd feeling of detachedness. He couldn`t recall having felt anything like that.

 

Of course it would have been foolish to expect to solve the mystery of Orlando in only a few hours, but he couldn´t help feeling disappointed at how none of those possible explanations seemed to completely fit what had happened in the cottage. Maybe he should search “vivid hallucinations” after all. Releasing a deep breath, he allowed himself to slump back in his chair and ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

 

 Across the room, a pretty young woman was carefully balancing a virtual tower of Mills and Boon novels. Somehow he`d always imagined racy romance novels to be more of a guilty pleasure for the more mature woman. Apparently he was to have all of his beliefs shaken in this quaint little place. Oddly fascinated, he watched as the novel- tower grew and grew. Every single book seemed to have a couple in various stages of undress embracing passionately on the cover. In front of a pirate ship, in front of a pyramid, in front of a castle.

 

Viggo frowned, hadn`t Orlando mentioned a castle in his journal? Immediately returning his attention to the computer screen, he typed in “castle” and the name of the village. Why hadn´t he thought of that sooner? Sometimes he could be shockingly slow. There were two castles in the vicinity of the village, he found, his pulse suddenly a nervous tattoo in his throat.

 

 The first, Clive Castle, was only mentioned in a few online guides of the area. Apparently it had been completely gutted by fire in the mid seventeenth century and only a few walls and the cellars still remained. The other one though, Castle Martin, even had a website. Viggo felt a cold shudder run down his back as he saw the panoramic shot of the castle that graced the top of the page. He knew this place! Just from this single photo, he was already able to recall which window belonged to which room. He remembered the hallways and staircases that connected them. Breathing rapidly, he could hardly keep his hand from shaking as he clicked on the “History of Castle Martin” tab.

 

The Castle, he learned, had been built by the Martin family. Said family had come from Denmark around the year 1100. Their name originally having been Mortensen, they had anglicized it to Martin in the early 13th century. It had continually belonged to the Martin family until the last heir had died childless in 1704. Viggo released a shaky breath, could this be his connection to the house, was he maybe distantly related to this family? There was a list of the names and dates of birth and death of all the castle`s owners up to the present day. It seemed that there had been a family tradition of naming the oldest male heir after the man who had originally built the castle in 1570, a Sir Viggo Martin.

 

Could that have been the man whose memories he shared, he wondered. But the castle`s interior and the clothing he remembered, had appeared to be from a far later era, at least a good hundred years later, he guessed. That would leave only two “Viggos” then, father and son. The latter also having been the last heir to have been given that name.

 

That seemed to be pretty much all the information he could glean from the website, concerning its previous owners. The castle now belonged to the National Trust and was open to the public from March to October.

 

Viggo mentally cursed himself once more for not having brought his mobile, now he had to scribble the instructions from the website`s "How to get there" on a tiny square of paper from a stack of blue post – it`s next to the keyboard. But it would have to do he decided, slipping the paper in his pocket.

 

The castle lay gleaming in the sun, squat and white, like a compact wedding cake on the horizon. Viggo smiled nervously to himself, why did it feel like he was coming home? Yet the closer he got, the more something like dread began to filter through his nervousness. As if he´d walked into some unseen spider´s web, like tendrils of fear wrapping around him, pulling ever tighter. He had been terrified, he suddenly recalled, his hands beginning to shake on the wheel. The last time he´d driven up the building´s wide driveway, he had been absolutely terrified and yet he couldn`t remember why. Trying in vain to calm his rapid breathing, he pulled over to wait for the trembling to subside.

 

 _Why was I so afraid, why?_ He angrily tried to force his mind to comply, to give up the answer, but in vain. Maybe it would in time, he told himself resignedly, he could but wait. In the castle`s car park, a few brightly clad tourists were already milling about, some of them consulting small pamphlets. Viggo felt quite out of place among them.

 

His steps crunching on the gravel, he made his way up to the building´s main entrance. The large hall beyond it was pleasantly cool, its high ceiling allowing the air to circulate around the landings that surrounded it on three sides. And even though it was now decorated in the style of the late 1930s, when the last owner had passed away, and hence more welcoming and lighter than he recalled it, Viggo was almost left reeling by the sense of Déjá Vu. Like two pictures, merged on top of each other, his surroundings seemed to want to converge with his memories.

 

The delicate, cream-coloured lamps wanted to disappear and give way to heavy chandeliers, the black and white photographs on the walls wanted to melt away into sombre oil paintings and the thick oriental rugs wanted to reveal the massive stones underneath. Staggering slightly under a sudden surge of vertigo, Viggo sat down on a low, upholstered taboret. He had lived here! He was completely certain of it now, no matter if that knowledge made him insane. Those were not someone else`s memories, _he_ had been the owner of this place, he had been the last Viggo Martin.

 

Running his hands through his hair, he suppressed a nervous chuckle, wondering if he should inform one of the tour guides, who had now begun to corral several groups of visitors into the hall, of this. Maybe the National Trust would like to put him on display in the hall. Still feeling a queasy mixture of apprehension and perverse amusement, he rose to buy a ticket to one of the guided tours.

 

Actually following their guide`s elaborations on when the castle had been built and by whom and its colourful history since then, however proved to be more and more difficult as the tour went on. With every new room, with every hallway they traversed, new memories came back to him. He recalled learning how to read and write in what was now known as the tapestry room, recalled his elderly, gout-ridden tutor. He remembered the enormous kitchen, with its open fire and heavy rotating spit, he`d often sat there as a young boy, sneakily helping himself to quite a few marzipan treats without the old man noticing.

 

Outside a large room which now housed a collection of antique manuscripts, paintings of his parents used to hang, Viggo remembered. Even during his life in the castle so many years ago, he`d hardly had any recollection of them. A bout of smallpox had felled both of them within days of each other when he`d been not even four years old. Now even their portraits had long since disappeared. _What else has been lost forever_? he wondered silently. These memories were vivid and disorienting, no doubt, but still they lacked the devastating weight of emotion that bore down on him whenever he remembered Orlando.

 

From the manuscript room they made their way into the gardens, flower beds now gracing the spot where there once had been a fishpond. The apple-and cherry trees now long gone, a small statue of the goddess Diana surrounded by stags, the only thing remaining he recognized. Once it had stood surrounded by concentric circles of carefully trimmed hedges.

 

Viggo lightly ran his fingers across the statues billowing stony locks.

 

“…today the collection is considered by many to be one of the finest of its kind.” The guide`s voice filtered through his thoughts after a moment.

 

Snapping himself out of his reverie, he hastened to follow the group around a corner to whatever it was they would be seeing now. He almost slipped on the gravel as he stopped dead at the sight in front of him. There, illuminated by the early midday sun, lay what during his time there, had been the stables. Its oaken doors had been replaced with thick glass, the boxes removed to make way for numerous classic cars, apparently the collection the guide had been referring to, and neon tubes on the ceilings completely chased away the murk it had once harboured.

 

Still, this was undoubtedly the place where he`d first laid eyes on Orlando. His legs suddenly like rubber, Viggo awkwardly tried to disguise his need to support himself against a wall as eagerness to inspect the cars up closely. Almost staggering through one of the doors, he heavily slumped onto a stainless steel chair, right next to a mint coloured coupè.

 

“1965 Ferrari 500 Superfast series 1, I still drive that car in my dreams.” A man in a `Mind the Gap` T-shirt winked at him, apparently mistaking his weakness for a wish to soak up the vehicle`s beauty. Viggo attempted to smile, tightly clasping his shaking hands before him. Trying to calm his breathing, he let his gaze wander over his surroundings. He was only a few feet from where he´d first seen Orlando. If he closed his eyes, he could still see him standing there in the door. Viggo fought the urge to touch the spot with his fingers, as if it were hallowed ground.

 

 _Oh god, how am I ever going to find you again_? He thought with sudden desperation. _How am I ever going to find out what took you from me or why I am here again?_ Why had Orlando not returned, why was he still nothing but a tormented spectre? And Viggo was sure that somehow Orlando had suffered, was still suffering terribly and maybe because of him. Maybe this separation was a kind of punishment for something he had done in his previous life. But what? And why would Orlando get punished too? He was beginning to fear he would never find an answer.

 

Rising reluctantly, he followed the group out of the building again. Deep in thought he trudged behind them along the narrow path. What had he been thinking? What had he been expecting? That he would find out something about Orlando? He couldn`t say himself anymore. For how likely was it that a stable-boy had left some kind of historically important mark on the castle, even if he had been the owner´s lover.

 

Viggo could feel a lump beginning to rise in his throat, that`s probably how it had been, Orlando had been nothing but a play thing, unimportant and to be discarded once you tired of it. He had been a wealthy and influential man, he probably could have ordered the boy into his bed, had he wished to do so. _No, no, no, I don`t want it to have happened that way, he_ thought defiantly and anyway, what he had felt for Orlando, what he still felt for him, exceeded any mere carnal attraction. He loved Orlando and he always would. Viggo almost bumped into the woman in front of him, who had stopped to take a few pictures of something. Raising his gaze, it came to rest on a small white marble structure before them, a sepulchre, he realized.

 

He barely had time to register the statue adorning it, before the ground was pulled from underneath him. Rain, falling down like knitting needles, two small bodies, lying bruised and bloody in the grass, a voice behind him speaking, _Look what he did_ , it said. Viggo spun round, he was in the cottage`s garden again, even though the flowers were dead, the trees bare and the ground covered in a thick blanket of snow, he recognized it immediately.

 

There were other people there with him and although he could not see them, he could feel their unease and fear. And there in the apple tree, now as undeniably, mercilessly real as can be, the dead man, swinging slowly on the rope. If the sight had terrified him as a painting, it now filled him with a horror and grief so crushing and devastating, it threw him to his knees before the tree.

 

“Who did this?” Viggo heard his own brittle voice ask. “Who did this?” This time it was a scream of pain and rage. But no one could or would answer him. Groaning, he hid his face in his hands and wept. Every tear seeming to carry an ocean of dreams with it as it fell into the snow to turn to ice there. Ice, that seemed to take root in his heart and spread through his body like a poisonous vine. He wept until his eyes burned red and dry, now even deprived of tears and his soul had become as cold and lonely as the snow-shrouded garden.

 

When leaden exhaustion finally tore his trembling hands from his eyes, the garden and the tree were gone and he found himself cowering on the castle lawn, the newly built tomb rising up before him as an eternal reminder of just what he had lost. The coffin, that was borne inside was heavy, polished oak, adorned with wreaths of white flowers. This is where his lover, his darling Orlando would lie cold and alone forever. _God, please, don`t make me see this!_ Something in his chest clenched so violently, Viggo almost doubled over with the pain _._

Then someone was lightly tapping his face, there were arms around him and he opened his eyes to find himself lying on the ground, surrounded by a group of worried-looking people.

 

“You just fainted on us.“ The woman holding him, the guide in her Elizabethan dress, said gently.

 

Viggo blinked a few times, his eyes stubbornly refusing to adjust to the sunlight. The silhouette of a funeral procession still burned onto his retinas.

 

“Low blood pressure", he croaked eventually, awkwardly trying to sit up. “I probably shouldn`t have skipped breakfast.”

 

The guide well-nigh forced him to have a complimentary slice of Madeira cake and a cup of coffee in the castle´s elegant little café. He ate almost without tasting, concentrating only on suppressing the tremble coursing through him until he made it back to his car. There, his tenuous control finally failed him, and he sat shaking like an Espen leaf for what seemed like an eternity.

 

He knew, God, he knew! He knew now what had happened on that day so many years ago. The last day he was to know happiness, the last day of Orlando`s life. The memory now so very clear, it filled Viggo with shame to think he had been granted the mercy of forgetting. For so long Orlando had carried the burden of this terrible truth alone. Never again, he vowed to himself, not a thousand lives, not a thousand deaths, not even a thousand broken hearts would ever again take this knowledge from him.

 

He`d attended the re-consecration of a church in a town a good fifty miles from the village. It had been badly damaged by fire and he had paid for its restoration and new bells. And he`d left Orlando behind, alone in the castle with the other servants. _Why did I leave you? How could I leave you?_ The sheer weight of his remorse was bearing down on him like lead. He now recalled how Orlando had told him they appeared to have grown suspicious of him, of his sudden promotion from stable hand to the Master`s personal attendant, a position usually reserved for young noblemen.

 

And he had feared that they might have guessed at the true nature of their relationship. _Forgive me, my love, I was blind_. To think that he`d made light of the notion then. He´d even told the young man not to worry about it when his lover had been only too right. _And I didn`t listen._

 

A mere day after his departure, two young boys from the village had been found dead, down by the brook near the mill cottage. Their broken little bodies bearing the marks of barbaric violence.

 

A horrific crime that had set the whole village on fire. The finger of suspicion had been pointed at almost every man who`d been seen anywhere near the cottage. A mendicant, who`d been spotted at its door, had already been beaten within an inch of his life when the physician, who`d examined the boys` bodies, came to the conclusion that they`d been violated before their demise.

 

 _And that was his death sentence._ Viggo could feel bile rise in his throat. Soon the rumours had grown louder that the sometimes occupant of the cottage had seduced his Master into entering into an unnatural relationship with him, had maybe even employed some kind of sorcery to accomplish it. Someone like that, they`d said, was capable of anything. Before his mind`s eye, Viggo could see Orlando gazing through the cottage`s windows in fear, watching the ever growing group of people, just outside the fence, their murmuring voices becoming ever louder and angrier.

 

The door hadn`t withstood their assault for long, the thunderous crash, as it gave way, echoing through his mind with a force that had him jumping in his seat, sweat streaming down his face. And he could see it now, all too clearly, a sickening, unstoppable re-enactment of what had happened that night. The frenzied villagers, dragging his beloved Orlando from the cottage, unmoved by his tears and pleas for mercy.

"You´ll live just long enough to curse your mother for ever giving birth to you, you demon _",_ one of the men hisses before spiting in the terrified boy´s face.

 

Then blows and kicks are raining down on him from all sides, bruising flesh and shattering bone, spattering the snow with blood. Now trembling so violently, his teeth seemed about to shatter in his mouth, Viggo slumped against the wheel. _Please, please, please, don`t make me see this_ , he begged silently. But it wouldn´t stop. Wouldn`t stop as they dragged the young man towards the tree and roughly slung the too short rope around his neck. Wouldn`t stop as they hoisted him up, kicking and gagging, unable to scream anymore. Wouldn`t stop as Orlando`s body finally, finally goes limp.

 

His body in a lather of sweat, his face streaming with tears, Viggo knew that no matter when or how he would die, it would be nothing, but nothing, compared to the horror, grief and pain of watching that radiant spark of life flee from the eyes of his Beloved and not being able to do a single thing to stop it. So weak he could barely move, he sat in his car for minutes or hours, he couldn`t tell, allowing a bleak, empty numbness to take hold of him.

 

 _But you wanted to know, didn`t you? Now you do._ A small voice inside his head mocked him.

 

“Yes”, he said it out loud. “I wanted to know.”

 

And he`d needed to know, he didn`t deserve the luxury of ignorance anymore. Never again would he forget or attempt to forget what that vision had revealed to him, not even if it destroyed him. What a shamefully easy to bear fate that would be compared to what Orlando had suffered. Why couldn`t it have been him instead? He`d lived a comfortable life of privilege, had never known the kind of poverty and back- breaking labour Orlando had had to endure.

“I`m so sorry, my love, I wish it had been me.” The words more breath than whisper.

 

But it hadn`t been, fate hadn`t been kind. It had condemned an innocent man not only to death, but something far, far worse. A truly endless suffering, an eternal life in eternal dying. And there was nothing at all he could do about it. Nothing he could do to ever help Orlando. Viggo could feel himself going very cold and still as those words kept on echoing through his mind. _Nothing, nothing nothing._

Mechanically his hands found the wheel, muscle memory taking over, allowing him to somehow steer the car back through those idyllic lanes, past those cozy little houses, past everything that had once appeared so inviting, and yet had become so irrelevant to him so very quickly. Even the cottage seemed nothing more than an empty shell now, now that he knew about the life it had once harboured.

 

Although its colours were still as vivid, its garden still bathed in light and the snug, squat building still seemed to beckon with promises of the rustic charms and quiet of days long gone, it was now nothing more than a two-dimensional backdrop. Something to be re-painted once the play was over. And the play most certainly was over now, at least for him, he knew.

 

Like an automaton, he wandered through the garden, the house, stood gazing unseeing into the gently flowing water of the brook. _Strange, how could I not notice it was dead?_ He wondered silently. _How could I not have noticed what was missing?_ Now he`d have the rest of his life to dwell on just that. Knowing with every single breath just what was missing. Numbly he watched the birds flitting through the suddenly faded foliage, their songs now tuneless and muted, watched the sunlight, robbed of all its gold, play across the colourless flowers.

 

It would stay like this, forever, of that he was certain. Not just the cottage or the village, but the entire world. Mechanically his legs carried him into the house and up the stairs to his room. How could he have thought himself in love with this place not so long ago? Now it seemed like a prison cell to him. A drab, oppressive place where his Beloved had spent his last night on earth.

 

Awkwardly collapsing onto the bed, Viggo let his hands brush across the cool sheets. Of course this had never been Orlando`s bed, even if he could so vividly recall it warmed by the other man`s living, breathing body. He could feel a sob rise in his throat, _God, why did you let me know this love only to take it away again?_ _Why did you lead me here, knowing I would never be able to help him?_

But there never could be an answer. He would never, ever know. Futilely closing his eyes, as if it could somehow lessen the horror of the realisation, Viggo lay on the bed unmoving until the evening sun sent its shadows creeping across the room.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * "An Adventure" (1911) by Charlotte Anne Moberly and Eleanor Jourdain.


	7. Where love grows free and wild

_How could I know I would never hold you,_

_Never again in this world, but oh,_

_Sure as you breathe, I am there inside you._

_How…could I ever know._

_How could I ever know._

Even as dusk began to shroud the room in its murk, Viggo felt as if he would never again rise from the bed. And he didn`t want to, he wanted to lie there and let the house divulge its horrors to him over and over again. Let its hate and fear seep from its walls into his soul, let it batter and consume it until his body was left but an empty shell.

He didn`t move when nothing but a thin sliver of moonlight was the only illumination keeping complete darkness at bay. Didn`t move when his ears picked up the secretive creak of ancient floorboards, somewhere below. Steps, slow and hesitant, creeping up the stairs. Viggo couldn`t tell if it was only in his mind, or if evil truly did permeate those sounds.

Still, he seemed unable to even will himself to blink when a dull glow appeared, shining weakly through the keyhole, only to vanish and then reappear, as if someone had briefly peered through it.  Even the doorknob, being gingerly tried by an unseen hand, could not jolt him from his apathy.

 _Of course, they would have sent just a single man first_ , he realized dimly. _They needed to know if he really was alone. If there really was no one to save him_. And still he did not move, there was no danger to him, he knew that now. No physical danger anyway. The secrets the house harbored were nothing but shadows of a horror long past, only real to the pitiful soul forever caught up in them.

A copper hue now began to infuse the silver moonlight outside, Viggo didn`t have to look to know it to be the glow of torches long burnt out, didn`t have to look to know that if he gazed out of the window now, he would find the garden shrouded in darkness. Let those shadows act out their hideous play without him, like they must have done so very many nights before. He couldn´t care anymore. There seemed to be no room now in his soul for fear or concern for his own safety, now that he knew what he did.

It was a whisper, an almost inaudible sound that finally broke through his numbness. A soft, trembling sob right beside him _,_ so heartbreakingly terrified, it seemed to want to tear him apart.

“I´m here!” Viggo´s voice would hardly obey him, coming out like a mere broken rasp. He said it over and over again. Begging and praying Orlando would somehow, somehow hear him. Would somehow know that at least he would not have to suffer through his torturous last moments alone. No, he didn`t care what happened to him anymore, but that heartbreaking, desperate voice had sent a new wave of grief rolling over him so intense, it could have smashed his bones and torn them from his bleeding flesh with its ferocity.

“I`m here.” He kept on whispering it long after complete darkness had returned to the room. _Please, please hear me, know I`m here, know that I won`t abandon you ever again._ Covering his face with his trembling hands, Viggo wept silently until exhaustion finally forced him into a fitful slumber at the break of dawn.

When he woke again, still shaken and un-refreshed, the day outside was sunny and more beautiful than it had any right to be. Yet the sun`s  pale golden rays didn`t warm him as he rose with the difficulty of an invalid and tottered down to the kitchen on unsteady legs. He felt as if he were walking through a dream, or a nightmare rather.

The world itself seemed to have been denied the refreshment of sleep. The light, the lush greens of the foliage, even the flowers` once so vivid colors still muted like those in an old photograph. Even he himself seemed to have become somehow…less. As if the past night had stolen life from everything it had touched.

As if it had drained all worth and meaning from existence itself. Fragments of thoughts kept on racing through his restless mind, useless and tormenting, always returning to that one, cold realization. _There is nothing I can do. I could spend a million desperate nights in this cursed place and not change a single thing. I could never help him. Never, never, never._

His body feeling alien and awkward, hardly able to contain the turmoil within, Viggo sat staring into his untouched coffee. It felt like there was no place for him anymore, not in the cottage, not in the village, maybe not even in this world. As if he were a broken toy that nobody had remembered to throw away. Useless, yet somehow still around _. If I stay, this place will kill me too._ He was certain of it now, the grief and helplessness would drain him completely of the will to live, slowly but surely the longer he stayed.

 _But why should I care? Why?_ A voice asked in the back of his mind.

And he did not have an answer. For what was death compared to the never-ending horrors his Beloved would endure for eternity? Robotically, he emptied his cup into the sink, the coffee long since cold, and returned to his room to pack his bags. Focusing on the repetitive task of folding his clothes, of removing every trace of his brief sojourn in the house, Viggo vainly tried to hold the unbidden memories, always wanting to well up within him at bay. Yet everything now seemed suffused with Orlando`s presence, as if it wanted to entice him to stay even as he knew he couldn`t. _I`m so sorry, my love, I`m sorry I´m not strong enough. You deserved a better man._ Viggo thought ashamed, again fighting back tears.

Soon his suitcase and duffle bag stood ready in the hallway, now there was only one thing left to do. Carefully removing the canvas from its wooden frame, Viggo slid the folded painting into the little space beneath the floorboards where he`d found Orlando`s diary. It wasn`t his now anymore, maybe it never had been, it belonged to Orlando, to the house, to the past.

Pressing a tender kiss to the little book, he also returned it to its hiding place before replacing the heavy board. The nails, which had been so reluctant to be prized from the thick wood, now sank into it with ease, seemingly eager to protect their secret once more. Somehow it seemed right that way, something that both their hands and souls had touched remaining in the house forever.

His last task accomplished, he picked up his bags, locked the door and drove off without looking back even once.

 

As long as Viggo could remember, he had loved London. Even its ugliest aspects, even its most hideous building still held a unique charm to him. It had always felt like a mosaic comprised of the reminders of man´s lowest instincts and loftiest aspirations. A living, breathing monument to life and all of its myriad faces. But returning to the city now, he felt out of place there for the first time in his life. Never had he thought its bustling markets could leave him feeling so isolated, its narrow streets could seem so claustrophobic. As if he had returned to a city of ghosts, or maybe as if _he_ were a ghost, ethereal and invisible in a world that had moved on a long time ago.

His apartment felt cold and uninviting, a stranger`s abode that held nothing for him. For over two weeks his bags sat untouched where he`d dumped them right next to the door.  There seemed to be no point in unpacking them when the passing days just would not see his ever increasing sense of alienation diminish. Even his work appeared strangely mechanical now, as if the spark of creativity, that had once burned so brightly within it, had departed for good, taking all sense of artistry, and more importantly, freedom with it.

No matter how hard he tried, whenever he stood in front of the canvas, whenever the first brushstroke swept across it, Viggo found himself unable to paint anything else but that face that would haunt him forever. There seemed nothing else left within him. Nothing else that could have poured forth from his soul anymore, but this one image of profound human suffering.

Over and over again he painted it, sometimes haphazardly and driven, sometimes obsessively meticulous. And he didn`t care, he couldn`t. He didn`t want the memory to fade, the pain to lessen, not when memories were the only thing in his life that still seemed to hold any value at all.

And so he had descended into a gloomy, restless daze. Endless days, passing in leaden monotony. Painting, painting, painting, maybe finding a piece of toast to eat, one that hadn´t yet succumbed to the thriving mould and then painting again. Sleep kept eluding him more and more, yet he didn`t care. His dreams would always be the same horrible mind- theater, full of violence and death, ending with the same, pale face gazing so very sadly at him, a constant reminder of just what he had lost forever.

As the months passed, Summer turning into Autumn, Autumn slowly yielding to Winter, Viggo found himself becoming ever more withdrawn from life as he`d once known it, hardly ever leaving his apartment now, spending his days painting and his nights tossing and turning in his bed, his body craving rest yet his mind fighting sleep. His phone went unanswered, until it finally stopped ringing, friends were rebuffed until they stopped calling. Viggo knew he was being unkind, knew they deserved better, but simply could not bring himself to care. It felt as if they were mourners, visiting a grave, laughing and talking, as if they were unaware they were talking to the dead.

And maybe he _was_ dying, he couldn`t say, he was dimly aware that he`d been losing weight to the point where his clothes hung from his frame like those of an adult on a child playing dress- up. But that too meant nothing to him, how could he mourn an existence that felt so much like death anyway. When December sent its first watery snowflakes and London had already adorned itself in its gaudy, cheerful finest, Viggo often simply forgot to eat, only remembering when the lack of nourishment  left him too weak to leave his bed for longer than a few minutes, the dreams that haunted his restless nights ever more vivid, ever more devastating.

 _Don`t leave me, don`t leave me_ , a voice in his head seemed to be permanently begging, driving him insane every waking moment until he was left a sobbing, trembling wreck, whispering futile apologies to the surrounding darkness. A week before Christmas, Viggo lay in his bed, his heart pounding arrhythmically in his chest with a violence that seemed to shake his entire body, his tongue strangely dry and swollen and he realized he could not remember when he last had something to drink.

And yet he felt nothing but a detached numbness, he seemed to have no feeling, no emotion left for himself _._ Orlando`s bruised, bleeding face always before his mind´s eye, consuming his every thought. The memories had been getting still more vivid lately, sometimes entire days seemed to replay themselves like a dully glimmering projection around him, always threatening to completely blot out reality at any time.

Over and over again he would find himself riding swiftly through a glittering, snow- shrouded landscape, reliving the last happy days of his earlier life. The joy he had felt then, looking forward to finally be reunited with his Beloved, that had kept him warm through the long, jolty journey home. And yet he would never quite make it there, always being violently torn away from his dream the moment the cottage appeared on the horizon.

Viggo basked in those last rays of false hope, gratefully surrendered to memory every time it embraced him. And yet the torment of never being allowed to conclude his journey also grew every time, until it ached within him like lungs being denied breath. Even though there could be no place on earth he feared more than the cottage, the need to see it but one last time grew more and more unbearable. There was nothing left for him to do there, he knew that only too well, yet still it seemed to call to him. Closing his eyes, Viggo pictured the house, covered with snow as it had been then, waiting for him. Waiting, waiting, waiting with infinite patience.

 _God, why do I have to go back_? _Do you think I would or could ever forget? Don´t you know that he´s on my mind every second of every day?_ _That I cannot forget his suffering even in my dreams? Viggo_ thought desperately, knowing in his heart that it was the truth. He had to go back. No matter what might await him there. No matter that he _knew_ he would never be able to set free that soul more precious to him than his own. He _had_ to go back without knowing why.

Dizzy with weakness, he rose from the bed, dressed himself with shaking hands and set out to return to that place that held both his fondest dreams and his darkest nightmares. This time he didn´t bother with any bags or suitcase or even just a winter coat. The keys to the cottage were still in the pocket of a thin linen jacket, gathering dust on a clothes hook since his return. It would do. It would have to.

The journey seemed to pass in a daze, dream constantly threatening to bleed into reality. The closer he got to the village, the clearer the visions grew and for a moment Viggo almost believed himself in a heavy, rumbling coach, gazing out at a group of Morris Men on their way home from some Yuletide revel, cheerfully passing a huge *puzzle jug of **Lambswool around, its steaming contents pouring freely down the chins of those yet ignorant of the puzzle`s solution.

But they too were but ghosts, the snow blanketing the roadside undisturbed by any long- dead reveler`s feet, the growing darkness only occasionally pierced not by the glow of torches, but the glare of headlights.

The village too, when it finally appeared on the horizon, at first seemed untouched by time. Its low, squat cottages now huddled cozily under thick, snowy eiderdowns. Yet the gentle glow that now lay over it was not the flickering of candles but the glimmer of tiny fairy- lights.

Not the garishly colorful kind that adorned the city, but generous dabs of gold- dust, glowing warmly under their fluffy white hoods, turning the village into an enchanted, snow globe landscape. And yet it held no charm for him anymore, now that he knew about that silent, secretive house at the end of Old Mill Lane, where no light or living being would greet him. Whose inhabitants walked forever in darkness.

And that was how it seemed to him, as he pulled up in front of it, eternally dark, now immune somehow even to the silvery rays of moonlight that touched but its exterior, yet could never illuminate its heart.

The key creaked shrilly in its lock, as if the house had somehow aged rapidly during his absence. Inside it though, everything appeared to be just as he had left it. Quiet and deceptively cozy. How welcoming it had seemed to him once and how ignorant he had been then. Now that he knew its true nature, he saw it for what it was, a tomb.

Would it become _his_ tomb, he wondered indifferently. Flicking the old heavy lightswitch, Viggo trudged up the stairs to his, to _their_ room and carelessly dropped the keys on the bed.

“I´m here.” He said it out loud. “But you know that, don´t you? Just like you knew I would come back.”

Viggo had no idea who exactly he was addressing, but it wasn`t Orlando. Orlando was lost to him. _He_ wasn`t the one who had cast a shroud of darkness, so heavy neither love nor prayers could ever lift it over the house. _He_ hadn´t cursed the very ground it stood on, evil like poison feeding its gardens, seeping into the walls like murky water, turning a home into an oubliette for a solitary, tormented soul who was condemned to dwell in it for all eternity.

Of course there came no answer, but still a sense if not of rightness of inevitability. He´d always meant to be here and the house itself seemed to exude a subtle satisfaction at having recaptured him at last. Resigned to his fate, Viggo wandered through its rooms like a sleepwalker, pausing briefly at the ghostly inscription on the window to tenderly brush his fingers across it.

“I listened my darling, I did, but I couldn`t help you”, he whispered as to himself before turning away from the accusing sight. Slowly he ascended the narrow staircase once more, quietly entering the little room at the top of it to sit down on the bed there. The sheets were cold, almost damp beneath him, so different from the pleasant coolness they´d possessed during the summer.

He slowly stretched out across them, gradually feeling a strange sense of finality, of peace almost well up inside him. Whatever might happen still, he`d reached the end of his path, in one way or another, of that he was certain. No need to go on anymore, not after this night. Maybe it was but hours to go. Extending an arm across the empty side of the bed, Viggo recalled the one tender meeting he and Orlando had been granted there.

“I`m sorry I left you, I won´t ever again”, he whispered before closing his eyes and quietly drifting into sleep.  For once his sleep was not disturbed by nightmares, as if he were allowed to truly rest for one last time, now that they´d served their purpose.

When he woke again, he could not say what had roused him. The house still lay in complete silence. Only large snowflakes had begun to drift past his window. Silvery feathers gliding softly through the bluish darkness, yet the very moment he opened his eyes, Viggo knew that there was nothing gentle, nothing peaceful within the house nor its garden.

The watching, waiting atmosphere he`d experienced before, now seemed to have risen to a fever pitch of anticipation and dread. The very air in the little room thick and suffocating with it in a way he´d never felt before. His heart beating in his throat, he pushed himself up on his elbows. Only now did he notice that the bedroom door had been thrown wide open, an invitation to the final act of the play.

Whatever waited in the darkness there, waited only for him. Rising stiffly, he stepped through the door without hesitation or second thoughts. There was no fear for him anymore, just the absolute certainty that now the end had truly begun. The cold hit him almost immediately, not the unmoving chill of an ice house, but a subtle rush of air, pregnant with the smell of snow.

Goosebumps rising on his arms, Viggo found himself almost smiling. Of course, it would be cold. _They_ would be cold. Not like Orlando. Orlando had been warmth and love and belonging.

The front door too had been thrown wide open, he noted without surprise, snowflakes whirling towards him as if in greeting.

Something was different though, he realized. Different to the previous times he had encountered _Them_. It felt almost as if the house had shrugged of a century- old reverie, as if something inside it had woken all of a sudden. Something that no longer would be confined to the shadows. His breath, fogging before him was real, the cold enveloping him solid, almost tangible and the sounds now reaching his ears not a distorted murmur anymore, but clear and real. Real.

Viggo stepped through the door. And then he saw them. For the first time really saw them. Not murky, wavering shadows but men of flesh and blood. In the light of their sputtering torches he could see their ragged clothing, their pock- marked faces and toothless mouths, men shaped by lives of deprivation and hardship.

And they saw him. Somehow _they_ saw him. And they _recognized_ him, he could see it in their eyes. Bafflement turning to something almost like fear in their collective gaze. One by one their heads inclined towards him, their hands vainly attempting to hide heavy cudgels and glinting knives as they slunk away to the back of the still baying mob crowding towards the apple tree.

Even before he turned, Viggo knew what he would see there. There before the tree, forced to kneel in the rust- colored snow, was his beloved Orlando. His beautiful face smeared with blood and dirt, his hands clasped in supplication, stammering pleas for mercy between deep, shuddering sobs. But every word, every tear, every moan of pain was met with only more jeers and derision from the mob and more kicks and blows from the two burly men, busy slinging a rope around the young man´s neck.

And although had seen that last, heart- breaking image of this brutal scene, had felt the fear and pain himself on that first day when he´d painted the tree, neither could have remotely prepared him for witnessing it now. Not the torment of a shadow, but the abject suffering of a human being, of someone he loved more than his own life. It hit him like a dagger burrowing into his skull, doubling him over in agony, wrenching a silent scream from his lips.

And then the scream wasn´t silent anymore, wild and despairing it tore from his throat, leaving it raw in its wake, echoing through the night like a bell, leaving a silence so profound, only the whispering fall of the snow still broke it. The mob had frozen like statues, surprise and confusion replacing their masks of rage.

Vainly Viggo tried to find his voice, tried to find words. Tried to warn these men, to never again dare to lay a finger on his Beloved, yet only one whispered word forced its way past his lips.

“Orlando.”

A hushed murmur began to travel through the crowd. A few sullenly defiant voices quickly being drowned out by the collective apprehension of those now beginning to grasp for an explanation, an apology.

But none of that could touch him, not when Orlando, his darling Orlando, was looking at him now which such infinite surprise and relief, which so much tenderness and love shining in his dark eyes.

 _I stopped it,_ was all Viggo could think, knowing with complete certainty that it was the truth. _Somehow I stopped it and it´s over and you´re free, my angel._ He tried to utter the words, but his voice appeared to have deserted him for good, his lips silently forming but one word: l _ove…love…love…_ Praying his Beloved would hear him, Viggo´s eyes closed under a wave of emotion. He knew that when he opened them again, the garden would lie still and silent once more.

The snow was still falling gently, like the tears falling from his eyes as the pain, fear and hatred of centuries was finally exorcised.

He stood in breathless awe for how long he could not say, letting the overwhelming love he felt for Orlando wash over him and course through him. Letting it fill him like a light that chased every still lingering shadow away from the house and the garden for good. Feeling it sinking deeply into the soil to plant shining seeds there that no darkness on earth would ever overpower again.

Never in his life could he have imagined experiencing a feeling so profound in its depth or so radical in its effect. If he had lived his life just for this one moment, it would have been worth it. A hundred lifetimes would have been worth it.

Had it been possible, Viggo would have stood there, before the snow- covered apple tree and watched the stars blink between its branches until they had faded into the light of the rising sun. Only the sensation of something like a light nudge, a soft warm breeze enveloping him, steering him gently back towards the cottage, finally persuaded him to abandon his sweet enchantment.

 _You stop on your way to heaven, just to make sure this old fool doesn´t freeze to death_ , he thought, smiling tenderly to himself.

Even though his body was exhausted, he felt no need to sleep. He didn`t want to let go of this feeling of love and serenity for anything in the world. Lying down on his bed again, he gazed out through the window until the first rays of the morning sun turned the snow into a sea of pearls again.

Whatever had haunted the house, whatever had troubled the souls within it, had left no earthly or unearthly trace. Its rooms, as Viggo wandered through them, now had surrendered their treacherous masks of quiet and cozyness to, for the first time, be truly filled with light and peace. Nothing waited in its walls anymore, nothing watched or whispered. It appeared to have been bled of all evil, cleansed and whole once more.

Even the kitchen window was unmarred, its inscription disappeared as if it had never existed. Maybe it hadn´t. He was well aware he couldn`t even begin to understand what had happened last night and maybe he never would. But that mattered little, the wound had been debrided, its festering infection gone, now it could heal. It would leave a scar, of course, but he wanted it to.

He wanted to carry that ache with him for the rest of his days. His Beloved had been released from his prison, his suffering was finally over and Viggo would never cease to be grateful for that. He could never regret what it had cost him, but he would also never not miss Orlando, would never feel quite whole again. But it was a small price to pay to be allowed to bask in the memory of a love he´d never dreamed he´d experience.

Allowing his hand to rest on the doorknob for a moment, Viggo felt as if he were shaking an old friend´s hand in a final farewell.

“ _Goodbye and don`t forget me.”_

_“ I won`t.”_

Before finally returning to London again, he briefly stopped at the castle. That home of a childhood of centuries ago. The place where a love even death could not alter had first begun for him. He found it changed in a way that had him weeping with gratitude the moment he returned to his car. The marble tomb now sheltered two coffins, two men side by side in death, the way they had been in life.

He wondered if he was the only one who could remember it the way it had been, the sad monument to one man´s violent death and another´s lonely life. But they had never been parted, they had lived together for many years, loving and supporting each other as equals. A thought that was like a healing balm to Viggo´s soul. Let him be the only one to recall a past that never was.

He would not keep the cottage though, he´d come to that realization even before he´d got back to London. It wasn`t his to hold on to anymore, didn`t need him or call to him the way it once had. It was part of another life. Reborn, it now needed someone else to live and be happy there. Yet he would allow himself to be quite picky when it would come to choosing its new owner, it could only be someone who ´d fallen in love with the house the way he once had.

Though it was mid May before there were the first inquiries, spring apparently conducive to magnify any nest building inclinations people might have. Viggo could see why. Ambling around the sun- drenched garden, awaiting the first potential buyer, he tried to recall the too few springs he´d seen waking the garden from its glass and silver slumber.

It had been more rustic then, wilder even but no less beautiful. The bluebells, almost hiding the green of the grass under their swaying, frothy carpet, seemed to promise to faithfully fade and be reborn for centuries to come. Maybe everything did.

The breeze, stirring blossom and leaf, appeared to coax from them a soft reassuring murmur, _Don´t you fear, we´ll remain, forever…forever…forever…_

Viggo allowed his eyes to close for a moment, letting sun and wind comfort him in their gentle embrace before the sound of an approaching car broke through his reverie. Releasing a deep sigh, he deliberately shook off the garden´s sweet spell and started towards the little path leading to the gate. A car door was forcefully shut just beyond the wall of blossoming Thunberg Spiraea and the head and shoulders of a man appeared between the arcs of white flowers, peering over the gate before entering.

He obviously hadn´t noticed Viggo yet, smilingly gazing at the display of his mobile and then back at the house, obviously satisfied that reality not only kept but surpassed the picture´s  promises. Viggo would have agreed, had he not been frozen to the spot by unimaginable wonder. Some things not even the most gifted artist could capture in their entire truth. Some things even a photograph could but attempt to approximate.

The sheer realness and presence of the young man standing there on that little garden path. The myriad of minute details, far too numerous to take in separately, yet each one a vital component, that only a living being could possess.

Not a ghost or vision or memory, but a living creature in permanent flux, moved by breath and heartbeat, every second subtly changing it, changing the breeze moving his dark locks or the play of sunlight on his fair skin. Or the way his eyes widened slightly and his smile grew as he finally noticed the other man, standing there gazing at him.

Maybe Viggo had changed more than he could have ever imagined in that one winters night. Maybe the unquiet ghost of a past that no one but him remembered had rested peacefully only until his time to be reborn as a renewed and living spirit, clad in flesh and blood once more, had arrived. Maybe a soul too had its seasons. And maybe for it too spring had arrived.

 

                                                          _Stay there in the garden,_

_Where love grows free and wild._

_Come to my garden,_

_Come, sweet child._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * A jug with a perforated neck and a hidden tube inside it through which the drink must be sucked directly from the spout in order to prevent spilling the jug`s contents.
> 
> ** Mulled ale or cider, poured over baked whole or pureed apples (originally crabapples). One of the drinks traditionally used for Wassailing.


End file.
